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Raine, William MacLeod, 1871-1954

"Wyoming, Story of Outdoor West"


"No, it wasn't. But--" She flushed with a divine shyness. "But I
loved you all the time, even when they said you were a villain."
"Even while y'u believed me one?"
"I didn't. I never would believe you one--not deep in my heart. I
wouldn't let myself. I made excuses for you--explained everything
to myself."
"Yet your reason told y'u I was guilty "
"Yes, I think my mind hated you and my heart loved you."
He adored her for the frank simplicity of her confession, that
out of the greatness of her love she dared to make no secret of
it to him. Direct as a boy, she was yet as wholly sweet as the
most retiring girl could be.
"Y'u always swamp my vocabulary, sweetheart. I can't ever tell
y'u--life wouldn't be long enough--how much I care for you."
"I'm glad," she said simply.
They stood looking at each other, palms pressed to palms in
meeting hands, supremely happy in this miracle of love that had
befallen them. They were alone--for Nora and Jim had gone into
temporary eclipse behind a hill and seemed in no hurry to
emerge--alone in the sunshine with this wonder that flowed from
one to another by shining eyes, by finger touch, and then by
meeting lips. He held her close, knew the sweet delight of
contact with the supple, surrendered figure, then released her as
she drew away in maidenly reserve.


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