"Come. She desires so much to see you."
"Go on. Lead me to her."
Whereon, conducting Granger past the sentry and through the outer cabin, or office, he tapped gently on the door of the saloon, and opening it, said--
"Ariadne, Mr. Granger is here," while, motioning the other to enter, he closed the door, not going in himself.
"'Tis best that they should be alone," he thought, his mind delicate and manly as ever. "Far better. It is indeed an ordeal for him."
And Granger, entering that saloon--while thinking how long it was since he had been admitted as a visitor to such a place--how long since he had stood face to face and on terms of equality with a gentle, refined woman!--knew that before him, and gazing pityingly at him, was Ariadne Barry, the dearest friend of the woman whom he had loved and lost.
[CHAPTER XXI.]
A DIVINE DESPAIR.
At first he did not dare to raise his eyes to the slim girlish figure standing there, his emotion being too great. Nor, if he saw it, had he dared to take the hand held out to him, but dropped a moment later at its owner's side.
But then, at last, he lifted his bowed head and gazed at her, seeing at one glance that she also was looking full at him. Seeing, too, that the sweet, delicate mouth was trembling, and that the pure, clear eyes were welling over with tears. And he observed also that, as he became witness of her emotion and deep sympathy for him and his despair, she turned her face away, while, moving towards a chair, she made a sign for him to also be seated.