“I have wronged you!” she said impulsively.

Looking on, I seemed to see or feel some slow, mighty force gathering in Steele to meet this ordeal.  Then he appeared as always—­yet, to me, how different!

“Miss Sampson, how can you say that?” he returned.

“I believed what my father and George Wright said about you—­that bloody, despicable record!  Now I do not believe.  I see—­I wronged you.”

“You make me very glad when you tell me this.  It was hard to have you think so ill of me.  But, Miss Sampson, please don’t speak of wronging me.  I am a Ranger, and much said of me is true.  My duty is hard on others—­sometimes on those who are innocent, alas!  But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”

“I did wrong you.  In thought—­in word.  I ordered you from my home as if you were indeed what they called you.  But I was deceived.  I see my error.  If you entered my home again I would think it an honor.  I—­”

“Please—­please don’t, Miss Sampson,” interrupted poor Steele.  I could see the gray beneath his bronze and something that was like gold deep in his eyes.

“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on.  There was no other sound like her voice.  If I was all distraught with emotion, what must Steele have been?  “I make amends.  Will you take my hand?  Will you forgive me?” She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast.

Steele took the proffered hand and held it, and did not release it.  What else could he have done?  But he could not speak.  Then it seemed to dawn upon Steele there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong.  For myself, I thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.  And there was resistance; I felt it; she must have felt it.  It was poor Steele’s hard fate to fight the charm and eloquence and sweetness of this woman when, for some reason unknown to him, and only guessed at by me, she was burning with all the fire and passion of her soul.

“Mr. Steele, I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly.  “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend.  It was the deed of a man.  But Mrs. Hoden isn’t the only unfortunate woman in the world.  I, too, am unfortunate.  Ah, how I may soon need a friend!

“Vaughn Steele, the man whom I need most to be my friend—­want most to lean upon—­is the one whose duty is to stab me to the heart, to ruin me.  You!  Will you be my friend?  If you knew Diane Sampson you would know she would never ask you to be false to your duty.  Be true to us both!  I’m so alone—­no one but Sally loves me.  I’ll need a friend soon—­soon.

“Oh, I know—­I know what you’ll find out sooner or later.  I know now!  I want to help you.  Let us save life, if not honor.  Must I stand alone—­all alone?  Will you—­will you be—­”