ether." Tremulously she made answer.

"I've had a feeling--all this time--that you were angry with me for some
reason."

"For what reason?" he said.

"That's what I never could remember."

The hand upon her head moved and lightly stroked her cheek; then very
gently but with evident determination turned her face upwards. His eyes,
green and piercing, looked straight into her soul.

"You think that still?" he asked.

"No." Panting, she answered him; for deep within her, memory stirred
afresh. The phantom of her dread lurked once more darkly in the
background. The last time those eyes had searched her thus, her soul had
been in agony. Wherefore? Wherefore? She struggled to remember.

And then in a flash all was gone. The past went from her. She was back
again in the present, with the throbbing consciousness of Max's arms
enfolding her, and the overwhelming knowledge that Max loved her filling
all her world.

"You're not afraid now," he said.

"No," she answered softly.

"Then--" he set her free, bending to her, his face close to hers--"I may
go on 'breathing and hoping,' may I, without running any risk of scaring
you away?"

She laughed--a faint, sweet laugh more eloquent than words, realizing
fully that, albeit her defences were down, he would not enter her
citadel until she gave him leave.

His chivalrous regard for her went straight to her heart. In Noel it
would not have surprised her, but in Max it was so unexpected that for a
moment she hardly knew how to meet it.

He waited with the utmost patience, his smile, subtly softened but still
unmistakably humorous, hovering at the corner of his mouth.

And so after a moment, half-laughing, with a face on fire, she reached
out, took the red head between her hands, and bestowed a very small, shy
kiss upon his cheek.

The next instant he held her crushed against his heart while his lips
pressed hers with all the fiery passion of a man's worship....

It must have been several minutes later that a cracked voice was
suddenly uplifted in the verandah singing a plantation love-song with
more of pathos than tunefulness.

Olga started at the sound, started violently and guiltily, and slipped
out of reach with a scarlet countenance.

"Nick!" she whispered.

Max glanced at the open window, raised his brows, shrugged his
shoulders, and strolled across to it. Nick it was, stationed at a
discreet distance, but dimly discernible in the darkness.

"Let me go to h