Argyl and Conniston were
standing by a sinking camp-fire talking quietly. Lonesome Pete,
returned from his errand, had gone into the grove at the edge of which
their fire burned for fresh fuel. There came to them through the
silence the clatter of hoofs; the vague, shadowy form of horse and
rider rose against the sky-line, and Jocelyn Truxton threw herself to
the ground. Moaning hysterically, she ran to Argyl!
"Argyl, Argyl," she cried, stopping abruptly, her two hands pressed to
her breast, "I am so wretched! I don't deserve to live! I have been
so mean, so little--" She broke off into passionate weeping.
Argyl went swiftly to her, putting her arms about the girl's shaking
shoulders.
"Jocelyn, dear," she said, softly. "Don't!"
"I have been wicked, wicked!" Jocelyn was sobbing. "They told me what
has happened--about the dam--about Roger Hapgood!" She broke off,
shuddering.
"But," Argyl was saying, trying to soothe her, "that is not your
fault, Jocelyn."
"Oh!" cried Jocelyn, wildly. "You don't know. It was I, I who
suggested the horrible thing to Roger Hapgood. It is I who am to blame
for everything."
"Hush, child! You have been a naughty little girl, that is all. You
didn't know what it was that you were doing--and you are not a bit to
blame!"
"And--and--and I have been such a little fool! I have just been a
vain, conceited little fool.
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