The Last Woman

For a time, he did not answer her. He stood quite still, staring into her eyes, and through them and seemingly beyond them, while his own face was hard, and set, and paler than she had ever seen it, before. Presently, his lips relaxed their tension; the expression of his eyes softened, and he drew his right hand across his brow.

He took the hand that was extended toward him, and held it between both his own, and, for a full minute after that, he stood before her in silence, while he fought the hardest battle of his life. When he did speak, it was in an easy, careless drawl.

"I reckon you roped and tied me that time, Patricia," he said, smilingly. "You've got your brand on me, all right, but maybe the iron hasn't burnt quite as deep as it does sometimes; and, as you say, possibly there will come a day when we can burn another brand on top of it, so that the first one will never be recognized. Will I be your friend? Indeed, I will, and I'll ask you, if you please, to forgive and forget all my bad manners, and the harsh things I've said."

"It is not necessary to ask me that, Mr. Morton."

"Patricia, if you'll just call me Dick, like all the boys do, out on the ranch, and if you'll grant me the permission which I have never asked before, of addressing you as I have just now, it will make the whole thing a heap-sight easier. Will you do it?

"I'd much rather call you Dick than anything else," she told him, still permitting him to hold her hand clasped between his own.

He bent forward, nearer to her; and, although she perfectly understood what he intended to do, she did not flinch, or falter.

He touched his lips lightly to her forehead, and then, with a muttered, "God bless you, girl!" he turned quickly, and went out of the room, leaving Patricia Langdon once again alone with her thoughts.