He laughed, withdrawing his hand.
“I think not. I am far too prosaic a mortal to allow dreams to worry me. So far I have discovered sufficient trouble in real life to keep my brain active. Even now I cannot forget how hungry I am.”
She did not answer, comprehending how useless it would be to explain, and a little ashamed of her own ill-defined fears, and thus they rode on in silence. He did not notice that she glanced aside at him shyly, marking the outline of his clear-cut features, silhouetted against the far-off sky. It was a manly face, strong, alive, full of character, the well-shaped head firmly poised, the broad shoulders squared in spite of the long night of weary exertion. The depths of her eyes brightened with appreciation.
“I believe your story, Mr. Keith,” she said at last softly.
“My story?” questioningly, and turning instantly toward her.
“Yes; all that you have told me about what happened.”
“Oh; I had almost forgotten having told it, but I never felt any doubt but what you would believe. I don't think I could lie to you.”
It was no compliment, but spoken with such evident honesty that her eyes met his with frankness.
“There could be no necessity; only I wanted you to know that I trust you, and am grateful.”
She extended her hand this time, and he took it within his own, holding it firmly, yet without knowing what to answer. There was strong impulse within him to question her, to learn then and there her own life story. Yet, somehow, the reticence of the girl restrained him; he could not deliberately probe beneath the veil she kept lowered between them. Until she chose to lift it herself voluntarily, he possessed no right to intrude. The gentlemanly instincts of younger years held him silent, realizing clearly that whatever secret might dominate her life, it was hers to conceal just so long as she pleased. Out of this swift struggle of repression he managed to say: