and spoke as if it were the most natural
thing in the world that they should be together. But when Walter
remained silent, she came forward to the hearth quickly, and, forgetting
that what was fitting in the old days was not permissible in the new,
she slipped on one knee on the rug, and suddenly, laying her head down
on his knee, began to cry.

'Gladys, get up! For God's sake, get up, or I can't hold my tongue. This
is fearful!'

The word was none too strong. The solitary and absorbing passion of his
life, a pure and honest love for that beautiful girl, surged in his
soul, and his face betrayed the curb he was putting on himself. He had
had but a poor upbringing, and his code of honour had been self-taught,
but he was manly enough to be above making love to another man's
promised wife.

'Don't make it any harder for me,' he said hoarsely. 'I know you are
sorry for me. You have been always an angel to me, even when I least
deserved it; but this is not the way to treat me to-night. Let me away.'

'Let me be selfish, Walter, just this one night,' she said, in a low,
broken voice. 'I don't know why I am crying, for it is a great joy to me
that you are here, and that I know now, for ever, that you feel as you
used to do before this cruel money parted us; there are not in all the
world any friends like the old. Forgive me if I have vexed you.'

She rose up and met his glance, which was one of infinite pity and
indescribable pathos. The greatest sorrow, the keenest disappointment
which had ever come to Walter, softened him as if with a magic touch,
and revealed to her his heart, which was, at least, honest and true in
every throb.

'You can never vex me, though I have often vexed you. I need scarcely
say I hope you will be happy with the one you have chosen. You deserve
the very best in the world, and even the best is not good enough for
you.'

A faint smile shone through the tears on the girl's face.

'What has changed you so, Walter? It is as if a whirlwind had swept over
you.'

'I have never changed in that particular,' he answered half gloomily. 'I
have always thought the same of you since the day I saw you first.'

'Oh, Walter, do you remember our little school in the evenings, with
Uncle Abel dozing in the chimney-corner, and your difficulties over the
arithmetic? Very often you asked me questions I could not answer, though
I am afraid I was not honest enough always to say I did not know.
Sometimes I gave