Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back.  “Don’t!  Please don’t!” she pleaded; then, as she saw the futility of words, with the old girlish motion her face dropped into her hands.  “Oh, I knew it would mean this if I saw you!” she wailed.  “You see for yourself we cannot be mere friends!”

The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color and seemed to grow darker.  “No,” he said, “we cannot be mere friends; I care for you too much for that.  And I cannot be silent when I came away off here to see you.  I would never respect myself again if I were.  You can do what you please, say what you please, and I’ll not resent it—­because it is you.  I will love you as long as I live.  I am not ashamed of this, because it is you I love, Florence Baker.”  He paused, looking tenderly at the girl’s bowed head.

“Florence,” he went on gently, “you don’t know what you are to me, or what your having left me means.  I often go over to your old ranch of a night and sit there alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you.  Sometimes it is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and before I know it I speak your name.  Then I realize you are not there, and I feel so lonely that I wish I were dead.  I think of to-morrow, and the next day, and the next—­the thousands of days that I’ll have to live through without you—­and I wonder how I am going to do it.”

The girl’s face sank deeper into her hands.  A muffled sob escaped her.  “Please don’t say any more!” she pleaded.  “Please don’t!  I can’t stand it!”

But the man only looked at her steadily.

“I must finish,” he said.  “I may never have a chance to say this to you again, and something compels me to tell you of myself, for you are my good angel.  In many ways it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but you are always with me, and I am the better for it.  I haven’t drank a drop since I came to know that I loved you, and we ranchers are not accustomed to that, Florence.  But I never will drink as long as I live; for I’ll think of you, and I couldn’t then if I would.  Once you saved me from something worse than drink.  There was a man who shot Mr. Rankin and before this, from almost the first thought I can remember, I had sworn that if I ever met him I would kill him.  We did meet.  I followed him day after day until at last I caught up with him, until he was down and my hands were upon his throat.  But I didn’t hurt him, Florence, after all; I thought of you just in time.”

He was silent, and suddenly the place seemed as still as an empty church.  The girl’s sobs were almost hysterical.  The man’s mood changed; he reached over and touched her gently on the shoulder.

“Forgive me for hurting you, Florence,” he said.  “I—­I couldn’t help telling you.”

Involuntarily the girlish figure straightened.

“Forgive you!” A tear-stained face was looking into his.  “Forgive you!  I’ll never be able to forgive myself!  You are a million times too good for me, Ben Blair.  Forgive you!  I ought never to cease asking you to forgive me!”