The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-06-16
CHAPTER xxi.

The Wanderer was not inclined to
deny the statement, which accorded
well enough with his total disbelief of
the story Unorna had told him. But
he did not answer her Immediately,
for he found himself in a very difficult
position.
After Unorna had spoken, the Wan
derer therefore held his peace. He
inclined els head a little, as though to
admit that her plea of madness might
not be wholly imaginary, but he said
nothing. He sat looking at Israel
Kafka's sleeping face and outstretched
form.
YES" she said, II was mad. You
cannot understand it. | I are say you
cannot even understand how | can
speak of it now, and yet | cannot help
speaking"
''Unorna." he said, gravely. ere
member that you are leaving me no
choice. | cannot leave you alone with
that poor fellow, and SO whatever you
wish to say | must hear"
You are not so hard with me as
you were" she said, thoughtfully,
after a moments hesitation, and there
was a touch of gratitude in her voice.
at is not for m etc be hard, as you
call it," he said quietly. There was
a scarcely perceptible smile on his
face, brought there not by any feeling
of satisfaction, but by his sense of his
W almost laughable perplexity.
He saw that he was very nea being
driven to the ridiculous necessity of
giving her some advice Of the
parental kind. ut is not for
me, either, to talk to you Of what you
have done to Israel Kafka to-day" he
continued. "Do not oblige me to say
anything about it. 1t will be much
safer. You know it all better than I
do, and you understand your own
reasons as L never can. If you are
sorry for him now, so much the better
you will not hurt him any more if
you can help it. If you will say that
much about the future | shall be very
glad, l confess"
do you think there is anything
which l will not do-if you ask it?"
Unorna asked very earnestly.
II do not know" the Wanderer
answered, trying to seem to ignore the
meaning conveyed by her tone.
Some things are harder to do than
others
ASK me the hardest!' she ex-
claimed. 'tAsk me TO tell you the
whole truth"
mo" he said, firmly, in the hope
of checking an outburst of passionate
speech. What you have thought
and done is no concern of mine"
Il could tell you-if you would let
do not tell me-" he interrupted.
II repeat that | do not wish to know"
Shall we be friends again?:'7
Unorna asked a second time, in a low
tone. "Shall we go back to the be-
ginning?"
Il do not see how that is possible
he answered, slowly.
You might have spared me that"
she said, turning her face away.
A few hours earlier his answer
would have brought fire to her eyes
and anger to her voice. But a real
change had ONE over her, not last
ing, perhaps, but strong in its i'm
mediate effects.
mot even a little friendship left?"
she said, breaking the silence that
followed.
II cannot change myself" he an
swered, almost wishing that he could.
Il ought, perhaps" he added, as
though speaking to himself. Il have
done enough harm as it is"
Harm? To whom?' She looked
round suddenly and saw the moisture
in his eye.
ITO him." he replied, glancing at
Kafka, land to you. You loved him
once. | have ruined his life"
Loved him? No never loved
him" She shook her head, wonder
ing whether she spoke the truth.
:'You must have made him think
so.h
Il? No-he is mad" But she
shrunk before his honest look and
suddenly broke down. 'No-I will
not lie to you-you are too true-yes,
| loved him, or thought L did, until
you came, and l saw that there was
no one--''