He was
going for good now; he was coming to tell her good-by; and he must not
go--to his death, maybe--without knowing what she had to tell him. It
was not much--it was very little, in return for his life-long
devotion--that she should at least tell him how she had wholly outgrown
her girlish infatuation--she knew now that it was nothing else--for the
one man who had stood in her life before him, and that now there was no
other--lover or friend--for whom she had the genuine affection that she
would always have for him. She would tell him frankly--she was a grown
woman now--because she thought she owed that much to him--because, under
the circumstances, she thought it was her duty; and he would not
misunderstand her, even if he really did not have quite the old feeling
for her. Then, recalling what he had said on the drive, she laughed
softly. It was preposterous. She understood all that. He had acted that
little part so many times in by-gone years! And she had always pretended
to take him seriously, for she would have given him mortal offence had
she not; and she was pretending to take him seriously now. And, anyhow,
what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand.

And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and
of herself since both were children--of his love and his long
faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a
coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and,
usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them
all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but
once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through
it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden.
Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face
always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he
had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had
really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must
have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation
with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her
unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in
her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there
never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.

Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and bra