"Ben," she pleaded, "Ben, forgive me. I've hurt you terribly; but I didn't mean to. I am as I am; I can't help it. I can't promise to do what you ask—can't say I love you now, or promise to love you in the future." She looked up into his face. "Won't you forgive me?"
Still the man did not turn. "There's nothing to forgive, Florence," he said sadly. "I misunderstood it all."
"But there is something for me to say," she went on swiftly. "I knew from the first what you were going to tell me, and knew I couldn't give you what you asked; yet I let you think differently. It's all my fault, Ben, and I'm so sorry!" She gently and timidly stroked the shoulder of the rough flannel shirt. "I should have stopped you, and told you my reasons; but they seemed so weak, and somehow I couldn't help listening to you." There was a hesitating pause. "Would you like to hear my reasons now?"
"Just as you please." There was no unkindness in the voice—only resignation and acceptance of the hard fact she had already made known to him.
Florence hesitated. A catch came into her throat, and she dropped her head to the broad shoulder as before.
"Ben, Ben!" she almost sobbed, "I can't tell you, after all. It'll only hurt you again."
He was looking out over the prairies, watching the heat-waves that arose in fantastic circles, as in Spring. "You can't hurt me again," he said wearily.
The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but this time she rushed on desperately, in spite of it. "Oh, why couldn't I have met you somewhere else, under different circumstances?" she wailed. "Why couldn't your mother have been—different?" She paused, the brown head raised, the loosened hair tossed back in abandon. "Maybe, as you say, it's a rainbow I'm seeking. Maybe I'll be sorry; but I can't help it. I want them all—the things of civilization. I want them all," she finished abruptly.
Gently the man disengaged himself. "Is that all you wished to say?"
"Yes," hesitatingly, "I guess that's all."