o her white, downcast face; then laid his hand
upon her shoulder.

"But Muriel--" he said.

And that was all. Yet Muriel suddenly hid her face and wept.

He did not attempt to restrain her. Perhaps he realised that tears
such as those must have their way. But the touch of his hand was in
some fashion soothing. It stilled the tempest within her, comforting
her inexplicably.

She reached up at last, and drew it down between her own, holding it
fast.

"I'm such a fool, Nick," she whispered shakily. "You--you must try to
bear with me."

She felt his fingers close and gradually tighten upon her own until
their grip was actual pain.

"Haven't I borne with you long enough?" he said. "Can't you come to
the point?"

She shook her head slightly. Her trembling had not wholly ceased. She
was not--even yet she was not--wholly sure of him.

"Afraid?" he questioned.

And she answered him meekly, with bowed head. "Yes, Nick; afraid."

"Don't you think you might look me in the face if you tried very
hard?" he suggested.

"No, Nick." She almost shrank at the bare thought.

"Oh, but you haven't tried," he said.

His voice sounded very close. She knew he was bending down. She even
fancied she could feel his breath upon her neck.

Her head sank a little lower. "Don't!" she whispered, with a sob.

"What are you afraid of?" he said. "You weren't afraid to send me a
message. You weren't afraid to save my life last night. What is it
frightens you?"

She could not tell him. Only her panic was very real. It shook her
from head to foot. A fierce struggle was going on within her,--the
last bitter conflict between her love and her fear. It tore her in all
directions. She felt as if it would drive her mad. But through it all
she still clung desperately to the bony hand that grasped her own. It
seemed to sustain her, to hold her up, through all her chaos of doubt,
of irresolution, of miserable, overmastering dread.

"What is it frightens you?" he said again. "Why won't you look at me?
There is nothing whatever to make you afraid!"

He spoke softly, as though he were addressing a scared child. But
still she was afraid, afraid of the very impulse that urged her,
horribly afraid of meeting the darting scrutiny of his eyes.

He waited for a little in silence; then suddenly with a sharp sigh
he straightened himself. "You don't know your own mind yet," he said.
"And I can't help you to know it. I had better go."

He would have w