"I'm using another person's money and I must get on,
to-morrow, with the work I agreed to do. Promise me, Enoch."
"But, Diana--O Diana! Diana! Let me go with you!"
Diana turned to face the dwelling. "The Canyon can do more for you
than I can, Enoch. But we'll meet, say at El Tovar before you go back
to Washington. Promise me, Enoch."
"Of course, I promise. But, Diana, how can I let you go!"
Enoch put his arm across Diana's shoulders and stood beside her,
staring at the silent, deserted dwelling. It seemed to Enoch, standing
so, that this was the sweetest and saddest moment of his life; saddest
because he felt that in nothing more than friendship must he ever touch
her hand with his: sweetest because for the first time in his history
he was beginning to understand the depth and beauty that can exist in a
friendship between a man and a woman.
"Diana," he said at last, "you may take yourself away from me, but
nevertheless, I shall carry with me the thought of your loveliness,
like a rod and a staff to sustain me."
When Diana turned to look at him there were tears in her eyes.
"I've always been glad that I was not ugly," she said, "but
now,"--smiling through wet lashes--"you make me proud of it, though I
can't see how the thought of it can--"
She paused and Enoch went on eagerly: "It's a seamy, rough world,
Diana, all higgledy-piggledy.
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