eadful about
it. After all, you asked me, didn't you? Perhaps I've hurt your vanity.
There, I didn't mean that, either. Oh, dear, let's talk about something
impersonal. We get along wretchedly of late."

The angry red ebbed away from Von Gerhard's face. The blaze of wrath in
his eyes gave way to a deeper, brighter light that held me fascinated,
and there came to his lips a smile of rare sweetness. The hand that had
grasped my shoulder slipped down, down, until it met my hand and gripped
it.

"Na, 's ist schon recht, Kindchen. Those that we most care for we would
hurt always. When I have told you of my love for you, although already
you know it, then you will tell me. Hush! Do not deny this thing. There
shall be no more lies between us. There shall be only the truth, and no
more about plump, blonde German wives who run with Zeitung and slippers.
After all, it is no secret. Three months ago I told Norah. It was not
news to her. But she trusted me."

I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his own. "Norah--knows!"

"It is better to speak these things. Then there need be no shifting of
the eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, no subterfuge."

We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past the rows of
peculiarly home-like houses that line Milwaukee's magnificent lake
shore. Windows were hung with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and
there a face was visible at a window, looking out at the man and woman
walking swiftly along the wind-swept heights that rose far above the
lake.

A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of
those normal, happy homes.

"Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were
make-believe friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care,
then what."

"I do not ask you to tell me," Von Gerhard replied, quietly.

"You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the
big quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of
twisting your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm
hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why
I love the very cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair
grows away from your forehead, and your walk, and your voice and--Oh,
what is the use of it all?"

"Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged
this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow
sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, dist