"It was terrible--terrible, Larry. Why didn't you tell them who you are?

Why did you let them--" she could not finish.

He laughed shortly. "It would have been such a sinful waste of words.

Can't you imagine me trying to make those men believe such a fairy story--under such circ.u.mstances?"

For a little they walked in silence; then he asked, "Is it about Jim Reid's suspicion that you wanted to see me, Helen?"

"No, Larry, it isn't. It's about Kitty," she answered.

"Oh!"

"Kitty told me all about it, to-day," Helen continued. "The poor child is almost beside herself."

The man did not speak. Helen looked up at him almost as a mother might have done.

"Do you love her so very much, Larry? Tell me truly, do you?"

Patches could not--dared not--look at her.

"Tell me, Larry," she insisted gently. "I must know. Do you love Kitty as a man ought to love his wife?"

The man answered in a voice that was low and shaking with emotion. "Why should you ask me such a question? You know the answer. What right have you to force me to tell you that which you already know--that I love you--another man's wife?"

Helen's face went white. In her anxiety for Kitty she, had not foreseen this situation in which, by her question, she had placed herself.

"Larry!" she said sharply.

"Well," he retorted pa.s.sionately, "you insisted that I tell you the truth."

"I insisted that you tell me the truth about Kitty," she returned.

"Well, you have it," he answered quickly.

"Oh, Larry," she cried, "how could you--how could you ask a woman you do not love to be your wife? How could you do it, Larry? And just when I was so proud of you; so glad for you that you had found yourself; that you were such a splendid man!"

"Kitty and I are the best of friends," he answered in a dull, spiritless tone, "the best of companions. In the past year I have grown very fond of her--we have much in common. I can give her the life she desires--the life she is fitted for. I will make her happy; I will be true to her; I will be to her everything that a man should be to his wife."

"No, Larry," she said gently, touched by the hopelessness in his voice, for he had spoken as though he already knew that his attempt to justify his engagement to Kitty was vain. "No, Larry, you cannot be to Kitty everything that a man should be to his wife. You cannot, without love, be a husband to her."

Again they walked in silence for a little way. Then Helen asked: "And are you sure, Larry, that Kitty cares for you--as a woman ought to care, I mean?"

"I could not have asked her to be my wife if I had not thought so," he answered, with more spirit.

"Of course," returned his companion gently, "and Kitty could not have answered, 'yes,' if she had not believed that you loved her."

"Do you mean that you think Kitty does not care for me, Helen?"

"I _know_ that she loves Phil Acton, Larry. I saw it in her face when we first learned that he was hurt. And to-day the poor girl confessed it.

She loved him all the time, Larry--has loved him ever since they were boy and girl together. She has tried to deny her heart--she has tried to put other things above her love, but she knows now that she cannot. It is fortunate for you both that she realized her love for Mr. Acton before she had spoiled not only her own life but yours as well."

"But, how could she promise to be my wife when she loved Phil?" he demanded.

"But, how could you ask her when you--" Helen retorted quickly, without thinking of herself. Then she continued bravely, putting herself aside in her effort to make him understand. "You tempted her, Larry. You did not mean it so, perhaps, but you did. You tempted her with your wealth--with all that you could give her of material luxuries and ease and refinement. You tempted her to subst.i.tute those things for love. I know, Larry--I know, because you see, dear man, I was once tempted, too."

He made a gesture of protest, but she went on, "You did not know, but I can tell you now that nothing but the memory of my dear father's teaching saved me from a terrible mistake. You are a man now, Larry. You are more to me than any man in the world, save one; and more than any man in the world, save that one, I respect and admire you for the manhood you have gained. But oh, Larry, Larry, don't you see? _'When a man's a man'_ there is one thing above all others that he cannot do. He cannot take advantage of a woman's weakness; he cannot tempt her beyond her strength; he must be strong both for himself and her; he must save her always from herself."

The man lifted his head and looked away toward Granite Mountain. As once before this woman had aroused him to a.s.sert his manhood's strength, she called now to all that was finest and truest in the depth of his being.

"You are always right, Helen," he said, almost reverently.

"No, Larry," she answered quickly, "but you know that I am right in this."

"I will free Kitty from her promise at once," he said, as though to end the matter.

Helen answered quickly. "But that is exactly what you must not do."

The man was bewildered. "Why, I thought--what in the world do you mean?"

She laughed happily as she said, "Stupid Larry, don't you understand?

You must make Kitty send you about your business. You must save her self-respect. Can't you see how ashamed and humiliated she would be if she imagined for a moment that you did not love her? Think what she would suffer if she knew that you had merely tried to buy her with your wealth and the things you possess!"

She disregarded his protest.

"That's exactly what your proposal meant, Larry. A girl like Kitty, if she knew the truth of what she had done, might even fancy herself unworthy to accept her happiness now that it has come. You must make her dismiss you, and all that you could give her. You must make her proud and happy to give herself to the man she loves."

"But--what can I do?" he asked in desperation.

"I don't know, Larry. But you must manage somehow--for Kitty's sake you _must_."

"If only the Dean had not interrupted the proceedings this morning, how it would have simplified everything!" he mused, and she saw that as always he was laughing at himself.

"Don't, Larry; please don't," she cried earnestly.

He looked at her curiously. "Would you have me lie to her, Helen--deliberately lie?"

She answered quietly. "I don't think that I would raise that question, if I were you, Larry--considering all the circ.u.mstances."

On his way back to the Cross-Triangle, Patches walked as a man who, having determined upon a difficult and distasteful task, is of a mind to undertake it without delay.

After supper that evening he managed to speak to Kitty when no one was near.

"I must see you alone for a few minutes to-night," he whispered hurriedly. "As soon as possible. I will be under the trees near the bank of the wash. Come to me as soon as it is dark, and you can slip away."

The young woman wondered at his manner. He was so hurried, and appeared so nervous and unlike himself.

"But, Patches, I--"

"You must!" he interrupted with a quick look toward the Dean, who was approaching them. "I have something to tell you--something that I must tell you to-night."