t miserable!"

It was illogical, it was weak, it was base, after those words, to yield
to the tide of passion which for the first time in his life surged up in
his soul with its full strength and power. And yet he did yield--why,
let those who have loved like him explain. As soon as he had uttered his
protest, and it seemed as if the battle should be over and these two
divided from each other for evermore, the two leapt together, and were
clasped in each other's arms.

She lay upon his breast; his arms were around her, his lips pressed
passionately to hers. In the ecstacy of that moment conscience was
forgotten, the past was obliterated; nothing but the fire and energy of
love remained. And then--quite suddenly--came a revulsion of feeling in
the mind of the man whose guilt had, after all, not left him utterly
without remorse. To Cynthia's terror and dismay, he sank upon his knees
before her, and, with his arms clasped round her waist, and his face
pressed close to her slight form, burst into a passion, an agony of
sobs. She did not know what to do or say! she could but entreat him to
be calm, repeating that she loved him--that she would love him to the
last day of her life. It was of no use, the agony would have its way.

He did not try to explain his singular conduct. When he rose at last, he
kissed her on the forehead, and, murmuring, somewhat inarticulately,
that he would see her on the morrow, he left the room. She heard the
street door close, and knew, with a strange mixture of fear and joy,
that he had gone, and that he loved her. In the consciousness of this
latter fact she had no fear of the morrow.

He might perhaps have kept his lips from an avowal of love, which was
afterwards bitter to him as death if he had known that at St.
Elizabeth's Cynthia West had once been known as the convict's daughter,
Jane Wood.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next
morning--"this won't do! I was to blame; I made a fool of myself last
night."

"What--in saying that you loved me?" she inquired.

"Yes--in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not
intend to say it."

"Does that matter?" she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand,
and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly.

"I did it against my conscience."

"Because of that other girl?"

He considered a moment and then said "Yes." But he was not prepared for
the steadily penetratin