eart was sick
with longing to gather her in his arms and comfort her and take her
sorrows on himself. But he knew that there were things beyond his help
here, unless she gave him her full confidence and cast her burdens into
his hands.

"Rosanne," he said, at last, "I ask you to trust me."

She looked at him with wretched eyes and a mouth tipped at the corners
as though she would weep if she could. In truth, the enchantment of
this man's love and her love for him was on her again, and the poignant
torment of it was almost too exquisite to bear. His voice stole
through her senses like the music of an old dream. His lean, strong
frame, the stone-grey eyes, and close-lipped mouth all spoke of that
power in a man which means safety to the woman he loves. Safety! Only
such a storm-petrel as Rosanne Ozanne, weary, with wings beaten and
torn by winds whose fateful forces she herself did not understand,
could realize the full allure of that word. She felt like a sailor
drowning in a wild sea, within sight of the fair land he never would
reach. That fair land of safety was not for her feet, that had
wandered down such dark and shameful paths. But, oh, how the birds
sang on that sweet shore! How cool were the green pastures! Small
wonder that her face wore the tortured misery of a little child. Denis
Harlenden's heart turned to water at the sight of it, and the blood
thrummed in his veins with the ache to crush her to his breast and keep
her there against the world and against herself, spite of all the
unfathomed things in her which estranged him. But he was strong enough
to refrain from even touching her hands. Only his voice he could not
stay from its caresses.

"Is not love enough for you, Rosanne?"

She trembled under it like leaves in the wind and lifted her eyes to
his. They looked long into each other's souls through those windows
which can wear so many veils to hide the truth. But, in that moment,
the veils were lifted, and both saw Truth in all her naked terror and
beauty. What he saw scorched and repelled but did not daunt him;
instead, a nobler love, chivalrous and pitiful, was born of the sight.
And she saw that love, and knew it great enough to clothe her even if
she came to him stripped of fair repute and the world's honours.

"Yes; it is enough," she said brokenly, and cast a thing she wore about
her neck to the floor. Then, suddenly, she collapsed in her chair and
fell into a fit of dry wee