Before he knew what he was about he had "asked her."
And here the little drama was blurred and muffled in his memory. He wondered, as he clasped his knees and studied the tops of the pine-trees, how he had put the question; whether he had perhaps put it wrong. He could not recall a word he had said; but her words in reply fell as distinct on his ear, as the note of the meadow-lark, down there by the roadside. How the note of the meadow-lark shot a thrill through the thin Colorado air,—informed with a soul the dazzling day! How cruelly sweet Dorothy's voice had been, as she said:
"No, Harry, I couldn't!"
It had made him so angry that he hardly knew how deep his hurt was.
"You have no right to say no!" he had heard himself say.
He could not remember whether that was immediately, or after an interval of discussion. She had stood up and turned away, not deigning to reply. And then the memory of that talk at the ball had struck him like a blow.
"Wait, Dorothy! You must wait!" he had cried, aware that his imperative words clutched her like a detaining hand. Then,
