"Oh, yes, you do," says I; "you deserved all we done for you. We loved you, Honey, and we do now."
"But you can't any more, Curly," says she. "I've been a thief. I've stolen your lives—from you two big, splendid men. But, oh! give me my hour—the one hour out of all my life.
"I stole from him too—from Tom," says she. "I've taken from him what I didn't pay for and can't. I never can. At least I can't until I've had—my hour.
"A woman has to face things all her life, Curly," says she; "and always she says: 'Well, let it be!' She takes her losses, Curly, and sometimes she forgets. But if she ever forgets what is in my heart tonight—if she forgets that—then life is never worth while to her again. There's nothing to do then—it's all a sham and a fraud. If that's what life means I don't want to live any more."
"Bonnie," says I, "you mustn't talk that way." I sort of drew her down on my knee now, and pushed her hair back and looked at her. "Listen at you—you that used to be up in the morning so early and hoorahing all through the ranch—your cheeks red with the sun, and your hair blowing, and your eyes like a deer's! Why, nothing but life was in the world for you then—nothing but just being alive."
"I wasn't a woman then, Curly," says she. "I didn't know."
"I didn't neither," says I; "and I don't know now."
"You can't," says she. "It's terrible! I'm—I think I'll go now."
She taken herself off my knee then; and, the first thing I know, she was gone.
I stayed there looking at the place where she'd been. I knew that now there shore was hell to pay!