West of which I've dreamed!"

Endicott nodded: "Yes, this is the West. You were right, Alice.
California is no more the West than New York is."

"Don't you love it?" The girl's eyes were shining with enthusiasm.

"Yes. I love it," he answered, and she noticed that his face was very
grave. "There must be something--some slumbering ego in every man that
awakens at the voice of the wild places. Our complex system of
civilization seems to me, as I sit here now, a little thing--a thing,
somehow, remote--unnecessary, and very undesirable."

"Brooklyn seems very far away," murmured the girl.

"And Cincinnati--but not far enough away. We know they are real--that
they actually exist." Endicott rose and paced back and forth.
Suddenly he stopped before the girl. "Marry me, Alice, and I'll buy a
ranch and we will live out here, and for us Brooklyn and Cincinnati
need never exist. I do love it all, but I love you a thousand times
more."

To Endicott's surprise the girl's eyes dropped before his gaze and
rested for a long time upon the grazing horses--then abruptly she
buried her face in her arms. The man had half expected a return to the
light half-mocking raillery that had been her staunchest weapon, but
there was nothing even remotely suggestive of raillery in the figure
that huddled at his feet. Suddenly, his face became very grave:
"Alice," he cried, bending over her, "is it because my hands are red?
Because I have taken a human life, and am flying from the hand of the