RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
"You've repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?"
"Believe you! I couldn't do else."
"Then listen! . . . Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valley with you, I've found myself. I've learned to think while I was dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what you say about yourself. I can't explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you've suffered, God holds you blameless. I see that—feel that in you every moment you are near me. I've a mother and a sister 'way back in Illinois. If I could I'd take you to them—to-morrow."
"If it were true! Oh, I might—I might lift my head!" she cried.
"Lift it then—you child. For I swear it's true."
She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a part of her actions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which always tortured Venters; but now with something more—a spirit rising from the depths that linked itself to his brave words.
"I've been thinking—too," she cried, with quivering smile and swelling breast. "I've discovered myself—too. I'm young—I'm alive—I'm so full—oh! I'm a woman!"
"Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery—before you," Venters said, and laughed.
"Oh, there's more—there's something I must tell you."
"Tell it then."
"When will you go to Cottonwoods?"
"As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them."
"I'll tell you before you go. I can't now. I don't know how I shall then. But it must be told. I'd never let you leave me without knowing. For in spite of
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