"Then you confess you were toying with me, deceiving me?" he bitterly exclaimed.
A little while before she had sought to turn him against her by telling all the truth. When that effort failed and he suddenly accused her in this manner, she had fancied she saw the way to accomplish her purpose with a falsehood. But now that she was face to face with it she faltered and could not lie.
"I tell you I did care for you—I cared for you more than words may express. My fear in those days—and it was the only fear I had ever known—was that you would learn the truth about me and despise me. Do you remember the day that you brought Frank Merriwell to the Flying Dollars? Do you remember that you were left alone in the little library and in a book you found some verse I had written? I used to write poetry in those days. Those verses were entitled 'My Secret.' I was angry when I found you had read them, and I tore them up. I can quote the first stanza."
In a low musical voice she repeated the following lines:
"When he comes riding up the valley
I watch from my window nook;
My cheeks burn hot, my heart is throbbing
For a single word or look
To tell me that he loves me truly,
But fear his lips will not be
Unsealed to whisper low the story
That means so much to me.
"It's poor poetry, Berlin—poor poetry; but it expressed the longing of my heart. And your lips remained sealed!"
Now he would have seized her and crushed her to his heart, but with astonishing strength she clutched his wrists and held him back.
"My lips are unsealed now!" he panted.
"It's too late!" she cried, in a weak, heartbroken tone; "too late!"
"Why is it too late? How can that be?"