r him, as he rambled on in his
delusion. She had hoped that, as it was late on Wednesday evening, the
time of it was passed and that, for another week, he would talk no more of
his friends and his money and his return to fortune. But the fixed idea
was there still, as dominant as ever. Her light tread grew weary and her
head sank forward as she walked. For one short hour she had felt the glory
of sacrificing all she had to give, to her love. Are there many who have
felt as much, with as good reason, in a whole lifetime?

But the hour was gone, taking with it the reality and leaving in its place
a memory, fair, brilliant, and dear as the tress of golden hair Vjera was
carrying home in her parcel, but as useless perhaps and as valueless in
the world of realities as that had proved to be.

They reached her door and stopped in their walk. She looked up sadly into
his eyes, as she held out her hand. He hesitated a moment, and then threw
both his arms round her and drew her to his heart and kissed her
passionately again and again. She tried to draw back.

"Oh no, no!" she cried. "It cannot be so to-morrow--why should you kiss me
to-day?" But he would not let her go. She loved him, though she knew he
was mad, and she let her head fall upon his shoulder, and allowed herself
to believe in love for a moment.

Suddenly she felt that he was startled by something.

"Vjera!" he cried. "Have you cut off your beautiful hair? What have you
done, child? How could you do it?"

"It was so heavy," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "It made my
head ache--it is best so."

But he was not satisfied, for he guessed something of the truth, and the
pain and horror that thrilled him told him that he had guessed rightly.

"You have cut it off--and you have sold it--you have sold your hair for
me--" he stammered in a broken voice.

She hung her head a little.

"I always meant to cut it off. I did not care for it, you know. And
besides," she added, suddenly looking up again, "you will not love me
less, will you? They said it would grow again--you will not love me less?"

"Love you less? Ah, Vjera, that promise I may make at least--never--to the
end of ends!"

"And yet," she answered, "if it should all be true--if it only should--you
could not--oh, I should not be worthy of you--you could never marry me."

The Count drew back a step and held out his right hand, with a strangely
earnest look in his weary eyes. She laid her fingers