ruth the remembrance
of Dermott's letter, in which the Irishman had stated that whatever
documents he had held concerning the early marriage of the elder Ravenel
had been burned.

Taking the letter from his pocket, he gave it to Katrine, who read it in
the fading light and returned it wordlessly. She had turned her face
away that Frank might not see the glow of admiration she felt for that
Irish Dermott whom Frank could never understand.

"What do you think of the letter, Katrine?" Frank asked. "I fail utterly
to understand it. Dermott knew, when he wrote it, that my father had
made that early marriage. It had been proven beyond the shadow of a
doubt even to me. I feel sure that he knew nothing of a divorce or he
would have mentioned it."

"I think," Katrine said, softly, "that Dermott told a story. You
remember"--her voice broke a little--"you discovered long ago he didn't
always tell the truth."

"And you think, then," Frank insisted, "that when McDermott wrote this
letter," he made a motion with it as he spoke, "he still believed that
my father and mother were never legally married?"

"He believed just that," Katrine answered. "He told me so the day he
wrote the letter."

"But why did he write me what he believed to be an untruth? Why did he
burn papers which he must have believed to be valuable evidence?"

"It's a way of his," Katrine answered, vaguely.

"Katrine," Frank cried, "there is more to this! Why did McDermott do
this thing for me?"

"He told me he would help you."

"When?"

"The day I went down to Wall Street to ask him to stop the attack on
your firm, when you were so ill. It was the day I told him that I loved
you."

"And loving you himself, as he has always done, he did this for me?"

She made a sign of acquiescence.

"Ah!" he cried, the glow of enthusiasm in his eyes. "I have never
understood the man, but, before God, I honor and reverence him for what
he did. There is much of the hero in this strange Dermott McDermott."

"I have known that always," Katrine answered.

"And still you prefer to marry me?"

She was standing at a little distance from him, and as their eyes met
she nodded her curly head quickly, as a child might have done.

"Ah," he cried, opening his arms to her, "come to me, come to me, you
divine little soul! I'm not worthy, but God knows how I will try to be!"

And a little later: "It is cold for you here," he said. "Shall we go in,
Mrs. Francis Ravenel?"

T