“Then you refuse me?” he said, a little stiffly.

“Certainly I refuse you, Graydon.  Has my manner led you to think that I was eager for a chance to accept you?”

“Oh, no, indeed!  You have checked my slightest tendencies toward sentiment.”

“Thank you for the assurance.  I do not care in the least for sentiment.”

His airy fabric of hope, of almost certainty, had been shattered so suddenly that he was overwhelmed.  There seemed but one conclusion.

“Madge,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice, “answer me, yes or no.  You loved some one at Santa Barbara who did not return your love?  That is your trouble of which Mrs. Wendall spoke—­I could not help hearing her words—­that is the mystery about you which has been haunting me with increasing perplexity; that was the sorrow I heard in your voice the evening you sang in the chapel, and which has vaguely, yet strongly, moved me since?  Tell me, is it not so?  Tell me, as a friend, that I may be a truer friend.”

She had turned away in a manner that confirmed his thought.

“You are suggesting a humiliating confession, Graydon.”

“Yes, humiliating to the man who saw you, knew you, yet did not love you.  Tell me, Madge.  It will make my own course clearer.”

“Yes, then,” she replied.

He sighed deeply, and was silent for a few moments.

“Madge,” he at last resumed, “look at me.  I wish to tell you something.”

She turned slowly toward him, and he saw that her lip was trembling, and that tears were gathering in her eyes.

“You may think me cruel in wringing such a confession from you, but perhaps you will forgive me when you hear all I have to say.  You may look upon me now as a creature of impulses and impressions.  The memory of my recent infatuation is fresh in your mind, but you yourself said I could be straightforward when once I got my bearings.  I have them now, and I take my course.  As a friend you have revealed to me much of your woman’s nature, and, having known the best, I shall not look for anything less than yours.  I shall be devoted to you through life.  I will be to you all that I can be—­all that you will permit.  It is said that time heals all wounds.  Perhaps some day—­well, if it ever can be, I should be content to take what you could give.  You said I was kind and patient with the little ghost.  I should be far kinder, gentler—­”

She had felt herself going fast, and had almost yielded to the impulse to exclaim, “You, Graydon, are the one who did not return my love; and although your love has been so brief and untested compared with mine, I will trust you;” when voices were heard on the same path by which they had come, and the figures of other ramblers were seen indistinctly through the foliage.

She gave his hand a strong pressure, seized her alpenstock, and hastened swiftly forward.  The path soon afterward emerged on the public road.  The breeze cooled her hot cheeks, kissed away her tears, and half an hour later they approached the hotel, chatting as quietly as the strictest conventionality would require.