Perhaps she was taking too much for granted. Perhaps he was talking about another girl, someone he met the day before. Yet it seemed as if there could be no doubt. Two girls wouldn’t be lost out in that desert. There couldn’t—and her heart told her he loved her. Could she trust her heart? Oh, how dear if it were true!

Her face was burning, too, with the sweet shame of hearing what wasn’t meant for her ears.

Then came the flash of pain in the joy. He didn’t intend to tell her. He meant to hide his love—and for her sake! And he was great enough to do so. The man who could sacrifice the things other men hold dear, to come out to the desert wilderness for the sake of a forgotten, half-savage people, could sacrifice anything for what he considered right. This fact loomed like a wall of adamant across the lovely way joy had revealed to her. Her heart sunk with the thought that he wouldn’t speak of this to her—and she knew that more than anything else she longed to hear him speak those words to her. A half resentment filled her that he’d told his secret—what concerned her—to Another and wouldn’t let her know.

She continued to search her heart, and now she arrived at the most disturbing fact of the whole revelation. He had another reason besides care for her why he couldn’t tell her of his love, why he couldn’t ask her to share his life. She wasn’t counted worthy. He put it in pleasant words, saying she was unfit, but he might as well have said plainly how useless she’d be in his life.

Tears welled up now, for Hazel Radcliffe had never in her petted life been counted unworthy for any position. She hadn’t considered at all accepting the position that wasn’t to be offered her—her startled mind hadn’t even reached that far—but her pride was hurt that anyone would think her unworthy.

Then over the tumult of her thoughts would come the memory of his voice deep with emotion as he said, “She’s as dear to me as my own soul,” sweeping everything else away.

There was no more sleep to be had for her.

The stars paled, and the dawn blushed rose in the east. She presently heard her companion return and replenish the fire, stirring about softly among the dishes, and move away again. But she’d turned her head away so he might not see her face, and he evidently thought her still sleeping.

So she lay and reasoned things out, scolding herself for thinking his words applied to her. Then she recalled her city life and friends and how alien this man and his work would be to them. She thought of the day when she’d probably reach her friends again and lose sight of this new friend. At that thought she felt a sharp twinge of pain. She wondered if she’d meet Milton Hamar and what they’d say to one other, if any comfortable relations could ever be established between them again; and she knew they couldn’t.

Once again horror at the thought of his kiss rolled over her. Then came the startling awareness that he’d used almost the same words to her that this man of the desert had used about her, yet in what an infinitely different way! How tender and pure his face stood in contrast to that handsome, evil face bent over her! She shuddered again and entertained a fleeting wish she might stay here forever and never return to his hated presence.

Then the thought of the missionary and his love for her would flood her with sunshine, erasing everything else in the rapture it brought.

And thus the morning dawned, a clean, straight sunrise.

Hazel could hear the man stepping softly here and there making breakfast and knew he felt it was time to move on. She must stir and speak, but her cheeks turned pink at the thought of it. She kept waiting and trying to think how to say good morning without looking guilty in her knowledge. Presently she heard him call to Billy and move away in the direction of the horse. Snatching her opportunity, she slipped from under the canvas into her green dressing room.

But even here she found evidences of her wise guide’s care, for standing in front of the largest cedar were two tin cups of clear water and beside them a small soap case and a clean, white folded handkerchief. He’d done his best to supply her with grooming articles.

Her heart leaped up again at his thoughtfulness. She dashed the water into her glowing face and buried it in the handkerchief’s clean folds—his handkerchief. How wonderful for it to be that way! How did an ordinary bit of linen become so invested with life currents that it gave such joyous refreshment with a touch? The wonder of it was like a miracle.