"But I couldn't do anything with you, Gregory. You persisted in throwing your life away."

"In what manner?"

"In becoming a socialist. In lecturing on socialism in defiance of your father's wishes and my entreaties. Your father threatened to cut you off without a dollar."

"I believe he's made a will in which I am given the liberal sum of one dollar," said Carker. "So you see he has not quite cut me off without a dollar. The money made all the difference with you, Madge. Morton was wealthy. I had nothing in the world, and no particular prospects. You married Morton."

"Well, a girl has to look out for herself in these days."

"But you pretended that you loved me."

"I did," she declared earnestly. "I loved you then, Greg, and I've loved you ever since."

Again he shrugged his shoulders, and a low laugh came from his lips.

"You don't believe me!" she exclaimed. "If you only knew how much it hurt me to see you smiling into the eyes of that Spanish girl! Oh, I longed to choke her!"

"How do you think I felt when you dropped me and became George Morton's wife?"

"I'd never done that had you been sensible. Had you promised your father that you'd give up socialism, I'd have clung to you through everything, Gregory. You know socialism is so ridiculous! And socialists are the skuff and rabble of humanity. All the cranks and crackbrains are socialists."

"Every great thinker since the world began has been called a crank. I admit that there are many undesirable persons allied with the socialists, but because of that the great principles of the party cannot be condemned. The theory of socialism is founded on the rock of justice and----"

"Oh, I've heard all that before, Gregory. Don't talk it any more. How can you blame me if I did not wish to marry a penniless man absolutely without prospects?"

"I don't blame you," he said. "At the same time, Madge, I hate to think that you married George Morton simply for his money. I hate to think you deceived him in such a manner."

"Oh, George was a good fellow, and money is an absolute necessity, Gregory. Had I possessed a fortune, it would have been different. The mere fact that your father had cut you off would have made no difference to me then. It makes no difference to me now."

"But it's too late now, Madge."

"Oh, no, it isn't too late."

He drew back from her, and the look she saw in his eyes brought a sudden flush to her cheeks.

"You think me bold. You think me forward," she hastily said. "Long ago you made me confess that I loved you. Do you think I forgot you? Oh, no; there's been never a day since we parted that I've not longed to see you again."

In spite of her hand on his arm, he rose to his feet.

"This won't do, Madge," he said calmly. "You're a married woman. What if your husband should hear you speaking such words to me?"

She was on her feet also.

"My husband--why, Gregory,--don't you know--haven't you heard? I have no husband!"

"You--have--no--husband?"

"No. I'm a widow. I've just come out of mourning. George has been dead more than a year."

Carker seemed turned to stone. She was standing squarely in front of him, and she placed both her hands on his arms, looking up into his eyes.

"I supposed you knew," she murmured. "He left me in comfortable circ.u.mstances, and there is now no reason why I should worry about the future. If your father is unrelenting, it can make but little difference to us. Even though we may not agree about socialism, I'll let you have your way. Everything has come out right at last, Greg. Isn't it splendid!"

Before he realized her intention, one of her arms slipped round his neck.

At that moment Juanita Garcia pa.s.sed the entrance to that little nook and saw them. She did not pause, but, pale-faced and wide-eyed, hurried silently on.

CHAPTER XXIV.

ON THE CLIFF.

During the remainder of the day Juanita avoided Greg Carker.

Evening came. Within the house the boys were singing the old college songs to the accompaniment of a piano as Juanita stole away alone and listened a long time from a corner of the veranda. Tears dimmed her eyes, and she whispered soft words to herself.

"I know I'm a veree fooleesh girl," she said. "I cannot help eet. Eet ees not to be that he should care for me."

Her heart throbbed with bitter disappointment. She left the house behind and wandered away through the dusky June night. Crossing the road and the fields, she came at last to Ripple Lake, on the edge of which she lingered while the moon crept up in the east.

"I ought to return," she murmured. "If they mees me, they will become alarmed. But I cannot go back there yet--I cannot go back!"

Her restless spirit led her round the sh.o.r.e of the lake until she finally found herself on a bluff that rose from the water's edge. The moon was now behind her back. At the brink of the bluff she peered over into the shadow below.

A footstep startled her.

With a smothered cry, she turned and found herself face to face with--Jose Murillo.

"It is you, Juanita!" he exclaimed, in Spanish. "All day I have waited and watched for the opportunity to speak with you!"

"Senor Murillo, why did you come here? You promised----"

"What is a man's promise to a gringo!" he retorted. "Did you think they could frighten Jose away from you? No, no, Juanita!"

"But I do not want to see you."

"You're a foolish girl. Why are you so determined against me? Your father gave me his promise----"

"It will do you no good to speak of that, senor. I tell you now for the last time that I do not care for you--I never can. If you are a gentleman, you will bother me no more. I'm going back now."

He placed himself before her.

"Not yet!" he exclaimed.

"You cannot stop me, senor!"