Beatrice caught her breath. By some strange inward power she grasped the truth. This man had done no wrong; there was no deceit in him. What she had believed of him was impossible! All that she had seen and heard condemned him; there was no weak point in the evidence of his guilt; but she trusted the prompting of her heart. Calm judgment and logical reasoning had no place in this matter. She had wronged him. And how she must have hurt him!
She held out both her hands, and there were tears in her eyes.
"Craig," she said, "I've come back. I couldn't stay away."
Harding could not speak. He took her into his arms—and suddenly the earth seemed to be giving way under his feet; his brain reeled and a great blackness settled down over him.
"Why, you're ill!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Oh, I have brought you to this!"
The anguish in her cry cut through him as he was losing consciousness, and he pulled himself together.
"No," he smiled, "I'm not ill; but you must give me a moment to realize that I really have you again."
They walked back the few paces to the trail. An old log lay beside it, half buried in grass and wild flowers, and here they sat together, in the cool stillness of the dusk, until the darkness came down and hovered round them. Out of the early night sky, one star shone down on them, like a blessing.
For the time being, it was nothing to them that the prairie sod was cracked and parched, and that the destroying wind would rise again at dawn.