"A ridiculous idea for that old squaw to get in her head," replied the girl, leaning in a weary fashion back upon the rock.
Whatever suspicion Livingston had entertained vanished for the moment.
"I am glad," he said. "I don't know exactly why, but I am glad that it isn't so. I shouldn't like to think that you had done such a thing—for me."
"The moon takes a long time to set, don't you think?" she remarked. "It must be almost time for daylight."
"Are you anxious?" he inquired pointedly. She sat erect in dignified silence and did not reply.
"How much longer must you be humored, dear?" he asked, taking both of her hands within his own, and drawing her toward him. "I do not believe that the moonlight will tell lies. Look at me!"
She leaped away from him with all her young strength, and stood upon the throne of rocks, scornfully erect.
"How bad you are—how wicked to talk to me so, to even think that I would care for you one minute! Surely you must realize that I know your past, Lord Livingston! Your past!" she flashed.
"You know my past, and yet you can condemn me," he said, pain and wonderment in his quiet voice. "Perhaps you are right. I haven't always been perfect. But I am not bad—Hope! Not that! I am a man—I try to be, before God. Surely you do not mean what you say, my girl—Hope!"
"You know just what I mean," said Hope, in a voice strained and harsh. "And you know it would be absolutely impossible for me to love you!"