Gradually the girl’s hysterical weeping grew quieter.  The sobs came less frequently, and at last ceased.  Ben Blair slowly arose, folded his arms, and waited.  Another minute passed.  Florence Baker, the storm over, glanced up at her companion—­at first hesitatingly, then openly and soberly.  She stood up, almost at his side; but he did not turn.  Awe, contrition, strange feelings and emotions flooded her anew.  She reached out her hand and touched him on the arm; at first hesitatingly, then boldly, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Ben,” she pleaded, “Ben, forgive me.  I’ve hurt you terribly; but I didn’t mean to.  I am as I am; I can’t help it.  I can’t promise to do what you ask—­can’t say I love you now, or promise to love you in the future.”  She looked up into his face.  “Won’t you forgive me?”

Still the man did not turn.  “There’s nothing to forgive, Florence,” he said sadly.  “I misunderstood it all.”

“But there is something for me to say,” she went on swiftly.  “I knew from the first what you were going to tell me, and knew I couldn’t give you what you asked; yet I let you think differently.  It’s all my fault, Ben, and I’m so sorry!” She gently and timidly stroked the shoulder of the rough flannel shirt.  “I should have stopped you, and told you my reasons; but they seemed so weak, and somehow I couldn’t help listening to you.”  There was a hesitating pause.  “Would you like to hear my reasons now?”

“Just as you please.”  There was no unkindness in the voice—­only resignation and acceptance of the hard fact she had already made known to him.

Florence hesitated.  A catch came into her throat, and she dropped her head to the broad shoulder as before.

“Ben, Ben!” she almost sobbed, “I can’t tell you, after all.  It’ll only hurt you again.”

He was looking out over the prairies, watching the heat-waves that arose in fantastic circles, as in Spring.  “You can’t hurt me again,” he said wearily.

The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but this time she rushed on desperately, in spite of it.  “Oh, why couldn’t I have met you somewhere else, under different circumstances?” she wailed.  “Why couldn’t your mother have been—­different?” She paused, the brown head raised, the loosened hair tossed back in abandon.  “Maybe, as you say, it’s a rainbow I’m seeking.  Maybe I’ll be sorry; but I can’t help it.  I want them all—­the things of civilization.  I want them all,” she finished abruptly.

Gently the man disengaged himself.  “Is that all you wished to say?”

“Yes,” hesitatingly, “I guess that’s all.”

Ben picked up the blanket and returned it to his saddle; then he led the horse to the girl’s side.  “Can I help you up?”

His companion nodded.  The youth held down his hand, and upon it Florence mounted to the saddle as she had done many times before.  The thought came to her that it might be the last time.