ritically an
old ragged white scar on the index-finger of his right hand. And quite
suddenly, to his profound amazement, she bent her head and swiftly
implanted upon that old scar a kiss so light, so humble, so benignant,
so pregnant of adoration and gratitude that he stood before her
confused and inquiring.

"Such a strong, useful big hand!" she whispered. "It has been raised
in defense of the sanctity of my home--and until you came there was
'none so poor to do me reverence.'"

He looked at her with sudden, new interest. Her action had almost
startled him. As their eyes held each other, he was aware, with a
force that was almost a shock, that Nan Brent was a most unusual
woman. She was beautiful; yet her physical beauty formed the least
part of her attractiveness, perfect as that beauty was. Instinctively,
Donald visualized her as a woman with brains, character, nobility of
soul; there was that in her eyes, in the honesty and understanding
with which they looked into his, that compelled him, in that instant,
to accept without reservation and for all time the lame and halting
explanation of her predicament he had recently heard from her father's
lips. He longed to tell her so. Instead, he flushed boyishly and said,
quite impersonally:

"Yes; you're beautiful as women go, but that's not the right word to
express you. Physically, you might be very homely, but if you were
still Nan Brent you would be sweet and compelling. You remind me of a
Catholic chapel; there's always one little light within that never
goes out, you know. So that makes you more than beautiful. Shall I
say--glorious?"

She smiled at him with her wistful, sea-blue eyes--a smile tender,
maternal, all-comprehending. She knew he was not seeking to flatter
her, that the wiles, the Artifices, the pretty speeches of the
polished man of the world were quite beyond him.

"Still the same old primitive pal," she murmured softly; "still
thinking straight, talking straight, acting straight, and--dare I say
it, Donald?--seeing straight. I repeat, you always were the sweetest
boy in the world--and there is still so much of the little boy about
you." Her hand fluttered up and rested lightly on his arm. "I'll not
forget this day, my dear friend."

It was characteristic of him that, having said that which was
uppermost in his mind, he should remember his manners and thank her
for dressing his knuckles. Then he extended his hand in farewell.

"When you come aga