Beth Norvell

He had never before known that she could ride, but he knew it now. His

eye noted the security of her seat in the saddle, the easy swaying of

her slender form to the motion of the pony, in apparent unconsciousness

of the hard travelling or the rapidity of their progress. She had

drawn back the long tresses of her hair and fastened them in place by

some process of mystery, so that now her face was revealed unshadowed,

clearly defined in the starlight. Dazed, expressionless, as it

appeared, looking strangely deathlike in that faint radiance, he loved

it, his moistened eyes fondly tracing every exposed lineament. God!

but this fair woman was all the world to him! In spite of everything,

his heart went forth to her unchanged. It was Fate, not lack of love

or loyalty, that now set them apart, that had made of their future a

path of bitterness. In his groping mind he rebelled against it, vainly

searching for some way out, urging blindly that love could even blot

out this thing in time, could erase the crime, leaving them as though

it had never been. Yet he knew better. Once she spoke out of the

haunting silence, her voice sounding strange, her eyes still fixed in

that same vacant stare ahead into the gloom.

"Isn't this Mercedes' pony? I--I thought she rode away on him herself?"

With the words the recollection recurred to him that she did not yet

know about that other tragedy. It was a hard task, but he met it

bravely. Quietly as he might, he told the sad story in so far as he

understood it--the love, the sacrifice, the suffering. As she listened

her head drooped ever lower, and he saw the glitter of tears falling

unchecked. He was glad she could cry; it was better than that dull,

dead stare. As he made an end, picturing the sorrowing Stutter

kneeling in his silent watch at the bedside, she looked gravely across

to him, the moisture clinging to the long lashes.

"It was better so--far better. I know how she felt, for she has told

me. God was merciful to her;" the soft voice broke into a sob; "for

me, there is no mercy."

"Beth, don't say that! Little woman, don't say that! The future is

long; it may yet lead to happiness. A true love can outlast even the

memory of this night."

She shook her head wearily, sinking back into the saddle.

"Yes," she said soberly, "love may, and I believe will, outlast all.

It is immortal. But even love cannot change the deed; nothing ever

can, nothing--no power of God or man."

He did not attempt to answer, knowing in the depths of his own heart

that her words were true. For an instant she continued gazing at him,

as though trustful he might speak, might chance to utter some word of

hope that had not come to her. Then the uplifted head drooped wearily,

the searching eyes turning away to stare once again straight ahead.

His very silence was acknowledgment of the truth, the utter

hopelessness of the future. Although living, there lay between them

the gulf of death.