Floyd extended his hand and then got up and began to walk back and forth across the room again.
“I've got another trouble to bear, Pole,” he said, gloomily.
“You say you have, Nelson?”
“Yes, and it is worse than all. Pole, I've lost the love of the only woman I ever really cared for.”
“You mean Cynthia Porter?” said Pole, and he leaned forward, his eyes burning.
Floyd nodded, took one or two steps, and then paused near to Pole. “You don't know it, perhaps, but I've been back up there lately.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes, I went back to see her. I couldn't stay away from her. I had been on a protracted spree. I was on the brink of suicide, in a disordered condition of mind and body, when all at once it occurred to me that perhaps she might not absolutely scorn me. Pole, the very hope that she might be willing to share my misfortune suddenly sobered me. I was in an awful condition, but I stopped drinking and went up there one night. I secretly met her and proposed an elopement. The poor little girl was so excited that she would not decide then, but she agreed to give me her final decision a week later.”
“Great God! you don't mean it, Nelson!” the mountaineer cried in surprise—“shorely you don't!”
“Yes, I do. Then I went back to fill the appointment, but she had confided it all to her mother, and the old lady came out and told me that Cynthia not only refused me, but that she earnestly hoped I would never bother her again.”