recognized it now, it had the
quality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on his
phonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something
which gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only from
love--and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it
before, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as he
but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went in
hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed
him and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her--now.

The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his
convict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell
on his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was more
beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn
when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears
and she drew her hand away.

"What is it?" she asked. "Can't you ever care for me? Must I make every
single advance? Oh, Denver, after I'd come clear home to see you--why
wouldn't you come down to the house?"

He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of
emotions.

"I was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down on
the bench beside him.

"Not want you?" she repeated. "Why, haven't I done everything to get you
out of prison? Didn't I go to the Professor and beg and plead with him
and sing all my German songs; didn't I go to the Governor and take him
with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?"

"Pardoned!" burst out Denver and then he stopped and shook his head
regretfully. "No," he said, "I wish you had, though. I traded my mine
for it--to Murray!"

"Why, Denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. I got you that
pardon myself! And then, after all that--and after I'd played, and sung,
and waited for you--you wouldn't even come down to see me!"

"Why, sure I would!" he protested brokenly, "I'd do anything for you,
Drusilla! But I was afraid you wouldn't want me. I've been in prison,
you know, and it makes a difference. They call me an ex-con now."

"No, but Denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think--why, we
_asked_ you to come and stay with us."

"Yes, I know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could not
forget so soon. "I know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right--I guess
we've made a mistake. I wa