"Like it!" he repeated, turning toward her. "It is my desert now; mine as well as yours. Oh, Barbara! Barbara! I have learned the language of your land. Must I leave it now? Won't you tell me to stay?"
He held out his hands to her, but she drew back a little from his eagerness. "Wait. I must know something first before I can answer."
He looked at her questioningly. "What must you know, Barbara?"
"Did you ever hear the story of what happened here in these very sand hills? Do you know that I am not the daughter of Jefferson Worth?"
"Yes," he answered gravely. "I know that Mr. Worth is not your own father, but I did not know that this was the scene of the tragedy."
"And you understand that I am nameless; that no one knows my parentage? That there may even be Mexican or Indian blood in my veins? You understand—you realize all that?"
He started toward her almost roughly. "Yes, I understand all that, but
I care only that you are Barbara. I know only that I want you—you,
Barbara!"
"But your family—Mr. Greenfield—your friends back home—think what it means to them. Can you afford-"
"Barbara," he cried. "Stop! Why are you saying these things? Listen to me. Don't you know that I love you? Don't you know that nothing else matters? Your Desert has taught me many things, dear, but nothing so great as this—that I want you and that nothing else matters. I want you for my wife."
"But you said once that you would never marry me," persisted the young woman. "What has changed you?"