“I’ve not been very hospitable, I’m afraid,” said she; “but this thing has stunned me. It seems like it has taken something away from the prospect of life here.” 257
“Yes, it has taken something away,” he responded, gravely thoughtful, his look bent upon the ground.
She sprang up quickly, a sharp little cry upon her lips as if from the shock of a blow from a hand beloved.
“I saw it in their eyes!” she cried. “But you–but you! Oh–oh–I trusted you to know!”
“Forgive me,” he begged. “I did not mean to hurt you. Perhaps I was thinking of the romance and the glamour which this had stripped away from things here. I think my mind was running on that.”
“No,” she denied. “You were thinking like that little woman across the river with the fright and horror in her big eyes. You were thinking that I am guilty, and that there can be but one answer to the presence of that man in my camp last night. His notorious name goes before him like a blight.”
“You’ll have to move your camp now,” as if seeking delicately to avoid the ghost that seemed to have risen between them; “this place will have unpleasant associations.”
“Yes; it cannot be reconsecrated and purified.”
He stood as if prepared to leave. Agnes placed her hand upon his shoulder, looking with grieved eyes into his face.
“Will you stay a little while,” she asked, “and hear me? I want to part from you with your friendship and respect, for I am entitled to both, I am worthy of both–if ever.” 258