e prison cell seemed like a
palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered.

"Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart.
You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have
known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great
passion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even
before I told you, didn't you?"

She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were brimming with
tears.

"And you cared enough to come and see me?" he said.

"I could not help coming, Paul," was her reply. "How could I, when I
knew that you were alone, and that you needed me?"

"But you must go away," he said. "It's heaven to have you near, but
you must go away. No one must know. Why, think of what the world
would say!"

"As though I care what the world says," was her reply. "As a matter of
fact, I obtained admission to you without difficulty, and I do not
think anyone knows who I am. You see, I have means unknown to other
people. But I do not care who knows. Why should I care? I came to
you because I--I---- But you know, Paul! You know!"

"And you came to tell me that?" he said.

"Yes, to tell you that," she replied. "Of course, I could never have
told you had things been as they were; but now--I can't help it. How
can I? And I've come to save you, too!"

"To save me?"

"Yes, to save you."

"But do you know what I am accused of?" he asked, and his voice was
hoarse.

"Of course I know. How can I help it? But that's nothing."

"But, Mary, you don't understand."

"I understand everything," she said. "That is, everything that
matters. You and I are all the world, Paul. For days I've been
fighting; perhaps I've been a little mad; I sometimes think I have.
But that's all over. I have thrown fear to the wind. I don't care
what the world says. I don't care though all the gossips in the world
talk about me. I came to you because you needed me, and because I love
you, Paul."

Her words were simple, but there was something glorious in her
self-abandonment. To her the non-essentials of life did not seem to
exist. She had thrown everything to the winds. The wondrousness of
her womanhood had burst forth. Her heart had spoken, and she had
listened to it. The ways of the world, the conventionalities of
society, the gossip of tongues were no more than thistledown. The
great thing in life was the love which had