ve, as I
thought, by my own; but gradually I came to see that she had loved me,
as I had her, unconsciously, almost from our first meeting, and that the
awakening must in any event have come sooner or later to each of us.
Then it seemed as though my suffering all converged in sorrow for her,
that her life, instead of being gladdened by love, should be saddened
and marred, perhaps wrecked, by it."

"Love works strange havoc with human lives sometimes," Mr. Britton
remarked, reflectively, as Darrell paused.

"I was tempted at times," Darrell continued, "as I thought of what was
in store for her, to rescue her at any cost; tempted to take her and go
with her to the ends of the earth, if necessary; anywhere, to save her
from the life she dreads."

"Thank God that you did not, my son!" Mr. Britton exclaimed, strangely
agitated by Darrell's words; "you do not know what the cost might have
been in the end; what bitter remorse, what agony of ceaseless regret!"

He stopped abruptly, and again Darrell felt that he had looked for an
instant into those depths so sacredly guarded from the eyes of the
world.

"You did well to leave as you did," Mr. Britton said, after a moment's
silence, in which he had regained his composure.

"I had to; I should have done something desperate if I had remained
there much longer."

Darrell spoke quietly, but it was the quiet of suppressed passion.

"It was better so--better for you both," Mr. Britton continued; "when we
find ourselves powerless to save our loved ones from impending trouble,
all that is left us is to help them bear that trouble as best we may.
The best help you can give Kate now is to take yourself as completely as
possible out of her life. How you can best help her later time alone
will show."

A long silence followed, while both watched the flickering flames and
listened to the crooning of the wind outside. When at length they spoke
it was on topics of general interest; the outlook at the mining camp,
the latest news in the town below, till their talk at last drifted to
the recent hold-up.

"A dastardly piece of work!" exclaimed Mr. Britton. "The death of that
young express clerk was in some ways even sadder than that of Harry
Whitcomb. I knew him well; the only child of a widowed mother; a poor
boy who, by indomitable energy and unswerving integrity, had just
succeeded in securing the position which cost him his life. Two such
brutal, cowardly murders ought to arouse t