of me!"

Again he said, "Wait," and covered the shining head on his shoulder with
a caressing hand. "It wasn't love, then, little girl; that's what it
breaks my heart to tell you: it was just madness. And it wasn't clean;
you've got to know that, too."

She nodded her head violently. "I know," she murmured; "I knew it at the
time, and that was what made me cry. But now it's--it's different, isn't
it, boy? now you--are----"

"You have heard it all, Margery. You know what I thought I was, and what
I have turned out to be. I'm afraid I am just a common crook, after all;
there doesn't seem to be standing-room anywhere else for me. But every
living fibre of me, the good and the bad, loves you--loves you!"

"What do I care for anything else?" she flashed back. "You are you,
Kenneth, dear; that is all I know, and all I care for. If you had stolen
all the money in the world, and had killed a dozen men to make your
get-away, it would be just the same. Only----"

"Only what?" he demanded jealously.

"It would be just the same to me; but--but.... Oh, boy, dear! it will
never, _never_ be the same to you!"

"I--I don't understand," he stammered.

"Some day you will. You call yourself a crook: man, man! there isn't a
crooked drop of blood in you! Don't I know? You persuaded yourself that
you had a right to take this money; perhaps you did have; _I_ don't say
you didn't. When I see anything I want, I reach out and take it, if I
can--and I guess most people would, if they dared. But you are
different; you are _good_. Some day all these dreadful things that have
come tagging along after the fact will rise up and gnash their teeth at
you and tell you that it was a _sin_, a _crime_. And then--oh, boy,
dear! then I shall lose you!"

Very gently he took her in his arms again; and for a time all things
sensible and tangible, the deserted driveway, and the plashing of the
little waves on the sands, the staring moonlight and the stencilled
shadows of the oaks, were forgotten in the great soul-healing silence
that wrapped them about and enveloped them.

"Margery," he began, when the interval of thoughtful heart-searching had
done its illuminative work, "what would you say if I should tell you
that your 'some day' has already come?"

She started as if he had thrust a knife into her. Then she slipped out
of his arms and caught up his hand to press it against her cheek.

"I should say, 'Whatsoever seemeth good in the eyes of my dear