assure me that your connection with her is an incident closed;
and for all time?"

"It is, unquestionably. I hope I shall never see her or hear of her
again."

For a moment he sat nibbling the end of the pencil with which he had
been figuring, trying, as I well understood, to be fairly equitable as
between even-handed justice and his prejudices. There was a sharp
little struggle, but at the end of it he said: "As I remarked
yesterday, I labor under all the disadvantages of the average American
father. I can occupy the position only of a deeply interested
onlooker. But I'll meet you half-way and lift the embargo. You may
resume your visits to the house if you wish to."

"I want more than that," I broke in hastily. "I am going to ask Polly
to be my wife. If she says Yes, I don't want to wait a minute longer
than I'm obliged to."

He demurred at that, intimating that I ought to be willing to wait
until a reasonable lapse of time could prove the sincerity of my
protestations. He was entirely justified in asking for delay, but I
begged like a dog and he finally gave a reluctant consent--contingent,
of course, upon his daughter's wishes in the matter. Half an hour
later I was sitting with Polly Everton before a cheerful grate fire in
the living-room of the cottage on the hill, trying, as best I might, to
tell her how much I loved her.

One of the things a man doesn't find out until after he has been
married quite some little time is that the best of women may not always
wear her heart on her sleeve, nor always open the door of the inner
confidences even to the man whose life has become a part and parcel of
her own. Mary Everton's eyes were deep wells of truth and sincerity as
I talked, but I read in them nothing save the love which matched my own
when she gave me her answer. If I had known all that lay behind, I
think I should have fallen down and worshiped her.

I did not know then how much or how little she had heard of the Agatha
Geddis affair. None the less, I broke faith, if not with her, at least
with myself. I did not tell her that she was about to become the wife
of an escaped convict; that her life must henceforth be lived under a
threatening shadow; that her children, if she should have any, might be
made to share the disgrace of their father.

Once more I make no excuses. A little later, if I had waited, the just
and honorable impulse might have reasserted itself; I might have
realized that t