"You say that you love me, and yet you intend to marry this other girl, who loves you, and live a lie?" she asked without looking at him.
"My God! but you make it hard!" groaned Palmerston.
She faced about haughtily.
"I make it hard!" she exclaimed. "I have been afraid of you—not for myself, but for—for others, about something in which one might be mistaken. And you come to me and tell me this! You would cheat a woman out of her life, a girl who loves you—who promised to marry you because you told her you loved her; who no doubt learned to love you because of your love for her. And this is what men call honor! Do you know what I intend to do? I intend to write to this girl and tell her what you have told me. Then she may marry you if she wishes. But she shall know. You shall not feed her on husks all her life, if I can help it. And because I intend to do this, even if—even if I loved you, I could never see you again!"
Palmerston knew that he stood aside to let her pass and walk rapidly out of the cañon.
The call of insects and the twitter of linnets seemed to deepen into a roar. A faint "halloo" came from far up the mountain-side, and in the distance men's voices rang across the cañon.
A workman came running down the path, almost stumbling over Palmerston in his haste.
"Where's the old man—where's Dysart?" he panted, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "We've struck a flow that's washing us into the middle of next week. The old professor made a blamed good guess this time, sure."