Beth Norvell

She sank back upon the chair, her face completely hidden within her

arms. Winston, his hand already grasping the latch of the door, paused

and glanced around at her, a sudden revulsion of feeling leaving him

unnerved and purposeless. He had been possessed by but one thought, a

savage determination to seek out Farnham and kill him. The brute was

no more than a mad dog who had bitten one he loved; he was unworthy of

mercy. But now, in a revealing burst of light, he realized the utter

futility of such an act. Coward, brutal as the man unquestionably was,

he yet remained her husband, bound to her by ties she held

indissoluble. Any vengeful blow which should make her a widow would as

certainly separate the slayer from her forever. Unavoidably though it

might occur, the act was one never to be forgiven by Beth Norvell,

never to be blotted from her remembrance. Winston appreciated this as

though a sudden flash-light had been turned upon his soul. He had

looked down into her secret heart, he had had opened before him the

religious depth of her nature--this bright-faced, brown-eyed woman

would do what was right although she walked a pathway of self-denying

agony. Never once did he doubt this truth, and the knowledge gripped

him with fingers of steel. Even as he stood there, looking back upon

her quivering figure, it was no longer hate of Farnham which

controlled; it was love for her. He took a step toward her, hesitant,

uncertain, his heart a-throb with sympathy; yet what could he say?

What could he do? Utterly helpless to comfort, unable to even suggest

a way out, he drew back silently, closed the door behind him, and shut

her in. He felt one clear, unalterable conviction--under God, it

should not be for long.

He stood there in the brilliant sunlight, bareheaded still; looking

dreamily off across the wide reach of the canyon. How peaceful, how

sublimely beautiful, it all appeared; how delicately the tints of those

distant trees blended and harmonized with the brown rocks beyond! The

broad, spreading picture slowly impressed itself upon his brain,

effacing and taking the place of personal animosity. In so fair a

world Hope is ever a returning angel with healing in his wings; and

Winston's face brightened, the black frown deserting his forehead, all

sternness gone from his eyes. There surely must be a way somewhere,

and he would discover it; only the weakling and the coward can sit down

in despair. Out of the prevailing silence he suddenly distinguished

voices at hand, and the sound awoke him to partial interest. Just

before the door where he stood a thick growth of bushes obstructed the

view. The voices he heard indistinctly came from beyond, and he

stepped cautiously forward, peering in curiosity between the parted

branches.