eering command in his smile. You hate
him but you obey him."

"He's an immoral monster, Berna. He spares neither time nor money to
gratify his whims where a woman is concerned. And he has no pity."

"I know, I know."

"He's intensely masculine, handsome in a vivid, gipsy sort of way; big,
strong and compelling, but a callous libertine."

"Yes, he's all that. And can you wonder then my heart is full of fear,
that I am distracted, that I asked you what I did? He is relentless and
of all women he wants me. He would break me on the wheel of dishonour.
Oh, God!"

Her face grew almost tragic in its despair.

"And everything's against me; they're all helping him. I haven't a
single friend, not one to stand by me, to aid me. Once I thought of you,
and you failed me. Can you wonder I'm nearly crazy with the terror of
it? Can you wonder I was desperate enough to ask you to save me? I'm all
alone, friendless, a poor, weak girl. No, I'm wrong. I've one
friend--death; and I'll die, I'll die, I swear it, before I let him get
me."

Her words came forth in a torrent, half choked by sobs. It was hard to
get her calmed. Never had I thought her capable of such force, such
passion. I was terribly distressed and at a loss how to comfort her.

"Hush, Berna," I pleaded, "please don't say such things. Remember you
have a friend in me, one that would do anything in his power to help
you."

She looked at me a moment.

"How can you help me?"

I held both of her hands firmly, looking into her eyes.

"By marrying you. Will you marry me, dear? Will you be my wife?"

"No!"

I started. "Berna!"

"No! I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man left in the world,"
she cried vehemently.

"Why?" I tried to be calm.

"Why! why, you don't love me; you don't care for me."

"Yes, I do, Berna. I do indeed, girl. Care for you! Well, I care so much
that--I beg you to marry me."

"Yes, yes, but you don't love me right, not in your great, grand way.
Not in the way you told me of. Oh, I know; it's part pity, part
friendship. It would be different if I cared in the same way, if--if I
didn't care so very much more."

"You do, Berna; you love me like that?"

"How do I know? How can I tell? How can any of us tell?"

"No, dear," I said, "love has no limits, no bounds, it is always holding
something in reserve. There are yet heights beyond the heights, that
mock our climbing, never perfection; no great love but might have been
eclipsed b