ised the impatience, the determination in it, inseparable from the
man. Yet she made no sign. She dared not, though she wanted him with all
her heart. Sobs threatened to strangle her and were fiercely suppressed.
What right had she to his love now that she knew all? What use had she
for his explanations and apologies? She was choked, dry-eyed,
frightened.

She was afraid of herself, for, at the first sound of his footsteps, the
beating of her heart had deafened her. She wanted him as much as he
wanted her, and she trembled, feeling powerless to deny her love its
human expression. It was compelling. What could be the end of it?

She bowed her face upon her quivering arms whispering, "God help
me!--God help me," yet straining her ears to catch every sound without.
And she made no resistance when Dalton at last found her, and, seating
himself at her side, drew her tenderly to his breast.

It was long before either spoke. Honor felt it was for the last time. He
feared it might be for the last time.

"You know?" he asked in a voice hoarse and strange.

"Yes," she whispered trembling as she clung to him.

"Yet you do not spurn me?"

"How could I, when I love you so!"

"Such a scoundrel as Brian Dalton?"

"I only know how much I love you!"

An inarticulate sound resembling a stifled sob came from him. After a
while----

"What are you going to do with me, Sweet?"

What answer could she give him but one? "What I must!" Yet she clung all
the closer.

"Though you love me?"

"I shall love you till I die. But we have to--we must--part!"

His arms about her were like bands of iron. He was scarcely aware of the
force with which he crushed her to him.

"It cannot be done," he said almost to himself.

"Why did you not divorce her?" Honor asked resentfully.

"To punish her. Ah!--my God!--Punishments come home to roost. Some day I
will tell you the whole sordid story. There is no time now--I have to go
back to Meredith."

"We must say good-bye here," she returned with a desperate attempt to be
calm.

"Never 'good-bye'!" Yet he had no hope. Honor's conscience had
decided--the conscience he had once feared would sit in judgment on his
sin against herself; and yet it had uttered no word of reproach.

For a full minute he held her away from himself, trying by the light of
the moon to see the look in her eyes. He wanted to plead with her to fly
with him to another land where none should know their history; but his
w