"You told me to go, and now you blame me for doing what you said," he
complained bitterly.

She realized the weakness of his defense--that he had saved himself at
the expense of the girl he claimed to love, simply because she had
offered herself as a sacrifice in his place. She thought of another man,
who, at the risk of his life, had held back the half dozen pursuers just
to give a better chance to a girl he had not known a week. She thought
of the cattleman who had ridden gayly into this valley of enemies,
because he loved her, and was willing to face any punishment for the
wrong he had done her. Her brother, too, pointed the same moral. He had
defied the enemy, though he had been in his power. Not one of them would
have done what Tom Dixon, in his panic terror, had allowed himself to
do. But they were men, all of them--men of that stark courage that
clings to self-respect rather than to life. This youth had met the acid
test, and had failed in the assay. She had no anger toward him--only a
kindly pity, and a touch of contempt which she could not help.

"No--I don't blame you, Tom," she told him, very kindly. "But I can't
marry you. I couldn't if you explained till Christmas. That is final.
Now let us be friends."

She held out her hand. He looked at it through the tears of
mortification that were in his eyes, dashed it aside with an oath, swung
to the saddle, and galloped down the road.

Phyllis gave a wistful sigh. Tears filmed her eyes. He was her first
lover, had given her apples and candy hearts when he was in the third
grade and she learning her A, B, C. So she felt a heartache to see him