Mrs. Baldwin was sleeping and Kitty was watching beside Phil, so the Dean himself went as far as the wash with Helen and Patches, as the two set out for their walk across the meadows.  When Helen had said good-by to the Dean, with a promise to come again on the morrow, and he had turned back toward the house, she said to her companion, “Oh, Larry, I am so glad for this opportunity; I wanted to see you alone, and I couldn’t think how it was to be managed.  I have something to tell you, Larry, something that I must tell you, and you must promise to be very patient with me.”

“You know what happened this morning, do you?” he asked gravely, for he thought from her words that she had, perhaps, chanced to hear of some further action to be taken by the suspicious cattlemen.

“It was terrible—­terrible, Larry.  Why didn’t you tell them who you are?  Why did you let them—­” she could not finish.

He laughed shortly.  “It would have been such a sinful waste of words.  Can’t you imagine me trying to make those men believe such a fairy story—­under such circumstances?”

For a little they walked in silence; then he asked, “Is it about Jim Reid’s suspicion that you wanted to see me, Helen?”

“No, Larry, it isn’t.  It’s about Kitty,” she answered.

“Oh!”

“Kitty told me all about it, to-day,” Helen continued.  “The poor child is almost beside herself.”

The man did not speak.  Helen looked up at him almost as a mother might have done.

“Do you love her so very much, Larry?  Tell me truly, do you?”

Patches could not—­dared not—­look at her.

“Tell me, Larry,” she insisted gently.  “I must know.  Do you love Kitty as a man ought to love his wife?”

The man answered in a voice that was low and shaking with emotion.  “Why should you ask me such a question?  You know the answer.  What right have you to force me to tell you that which you already know—­that I love you—­another man’s wife?”

Helen’s face went white.  In her anxiety for Kitty she, had not foreseen this situation in which, by her question, she had placed herself.

“Larry!” she said sharply.

“Well,” he retorted passionately, “you insisted that I tell you the truth.”

“I insisted that you tell me the truth about Kitty,” she returned.

“Well, you have it,” he answered quickly.

“Oh, Larry,” she cried, “how could you—­how could you ask a woman you do not love to be your wife?  How could you do it, Larry?  And just when I was so proud of you; so glad for you that you had found yourself; that you were such a splendid man!”

“Kitty and I are the best of friends,” he answered in a dull, spiritless tone, “the best of companions.  In the past year I have grown very fond of her—­we have much in common.  I can give her the life she desires—­the life she is fitted for.  I will make her happy; I will be true to her; I will be to her everything that a man should be to his wife.”