suggested, for a woman to change her opinion
of a man than for him to change his opinion of himself. Noaks, despite
the presence of mind he had shown a few moments ago, still saw himself
as he had seen himself during the past hours: that is, as an arrant
little coward--one who by his fear to die had put himself outside the
pale of decent manhood. He had meant to escape from the house at dead of
night and, under an assumed name, work his passage out to Australia--a
land which had always made strong appeal to his imagination. No one, he
had reflected, would suppose because his body was not retrieved from
the water that he had not perished with the rest. And he had looked to
Australia to make a man of him yet: in Encounter Bay, perhaps, or in the
Gulf of Carpentaria, he might yet end nobly.

Thus Katie's behaviour was as much an embarrassment as a relief; and he
asked her in what way he was great and wonderful.

"Modest, like all heroes!" she cried, and, still kneeling, proceeded to
sing his praises with a so infectious fervour that Noaks did begin to
feel he had done a fine thing in not dying. After all, was it not moral
cowardice as much as love that had tempted him to die? He had wrestled
with it, thrown it. "Yes," said he, when her rhapsody was over, "perhaps
I am modest."

"And that is why you hid yourself just now?"

"Yes," he gladly said. "I hid myself for the same reason," he added,
"when I heard your mother's footstep."

"But," she faltered, with a sudden doubt, "that bit of writing which
Mother found on the table--"

"That? Oh, that was only a general reflection, copied out of a book."

"Oh, won't poor Mother be glad when she knows!"

"I don't want her to know," said Noaks, with a return of nervousness.
"You mustn't tell any one. I--the fact is--"

"Ah, that is so like you!" the girl said tenderly. "I suppose it was
your modesty that all this while blinded me. Please, sir, I have a
confession to make to you. Never till to-night have I loved you."

Exquisite was the shock of these words to one who, not without reason,
had always assumed that no woman would ever love him. Before he knew
what he was doing, he had bent down and kissed the sweet upturned face.
It was the first kiss he had ever given outside his family circle. It
was an artless and a resounding kiss.

He started back, dazed. What manner of man, he wondered, was he? A
coward, piling profligacy on poltroonery? Or a hero, claiming exemption
f