“If there's a queen on earth—it's you,” he said simply.
He reddened again, and to divert it felt in his satchel and took out a rock. Then he looked across at the hills again:
“If I do trace up that vein of coal and the iron which is needed with it—when I do—for I know it is here as well as Leverrier knew that Neptune was in our planetary system by the attraction exerted—when I do—”
He looked at her again. He could not say the words. Real love has ideas, but never words. It feels, but cannot speak. That which comes out of the mouth, being words, is ever a poor substitute for that which comes from the heart and is spirit.
“Clay,” she said, “you keep forgetting. I say I—I am—was—” She stopped confused.
He looked hurt for a moment and smiled in his frank way: “I know it is here,” he said holding up a bit of coal—“here, by the million tons, and it is mine by right of birth and education and breeding. It is my heritage to find it. One day Alabama steel will outrank Pittsburgh's. Oh, to put my name there as the discoverer!”
“Then you”—he turned and said it fondly—reverently—“you should be mine by right of—of love.”
She sighed.
“Clay—I am sorry for you. I can never love you that way. You have told me that, since—oh, since I can remember, and I have always told you—you know we are cousins, anyway—second cousins.” She shook her head.
“Under the heart of the flinty hill lies the coal,” he said simply.