One
mile, and then another, and after that a third, and they were looking
into gray gloom far ahead, where lay the kloof.
It was strange that he should think of the letter now--the letter he had
written to Ellen McCormick--but think of it he did, and said what was in
his mind to Mary Standish, who was also looking with him into the wall
of gloom that lay between them and the distant cottonwoods.
"It seemed to me that I was not writing it to her, but to _you_" he
said. "And I think that if you hadn't come back to me I would have
gone mad."
"I have the letter. It is here"--and she placed a hand upon her breast.
"Do you remember what you wrote, Alan?"
"That you meant more to me than life."
"And that--particularly--you wanted Ellen McCormick to keep a tress of
my hair for you if they found me."
He nodded. "When I sat across the table from you aboard the _Nome_, I
worshiped it and didn't know it. And since then--since I've had you
here--every time. I've looked at you--" He stopped, choking the words
back in his throat.
"Say it, Alan."
"I've wanted to see it down," he finished desperately. "Silly notion,
isn't it?"
"Why is it?" she asked, her eyes widening a little. "If you love it, why
is it a silly notion to want to see it down?"
"Why, I though possibly you might think it so," he added lamely.
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