her. He was not thinking of himself,
she knew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her.

A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing on, but she heeded not
the big drops driving into her face, nor did she notice that before she
reached her door she was quite wet. She found Barney waiting for her. As
she entered he arose and stood silent.

"Barney!" she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. But there was no reply.

"Oh, Barney!" she cried again, her voice quivering, "won't you tell me
to come?"

"Come," he said, holding out his arms.

With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, wreathed her arms about
his neck, and clung sobbing. For some moments he held her fast, gently
caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful hair till she grew
quiet. Then disengaging her arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness
and put her away from him.

"Go and take off your wet things first," he said.

"Say you forgive me, Barney," she whispered, putting her arms again
about his neck.

"That's not the word," he replied sadly; "there's nothing to forgive.
Go, now!"

She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood might not change. If she
could only get her arms about his neck she could win and hold him, and,
what was far more important, she could conquer herself, for great as she
knew her love to be, she was fully aware of the hold her ambition had
upon her and she dreaded lest that influence should become dominant in
this hour. She knew well their souls would reach each other's secrets,
and according to that reading the issue would be.

"I will keep him! I will keep him!" she whispered to herself as she tore
off her wet clothing. "What shall I put on?" She could afford to lose
no point of vantage and she must hasten. She chose her simplest gown, a
soft creamy crepe de chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show the
superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving her arms bare to the elbow
and falling away at the neck to reveal the soft, full curves where
they flowed down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her hair
and gathered it loosely in a knot, leaving it as the wind and rain had
tossed it into a bewildering tangle of ringlets about her face. One
glance she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared more lovely. The
dead ivory of her skin, relieved by a faint flush in her cheeks, the
lustrous eyes, now aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the
night-black masses of her hair--this, and that indescribable but