m afraid."

Her eyes blazed more widely than before. Her color went like sunset
tints from the sky, leaving her face an ashen hue of chill.

"Deceit?" she repeated. "You mean that I--I have deceived you? What
do you mean?"

He could bear no more of her apparent innocence. It was breaking his
resolution down.

"Oh, we may as well be candid!" he exclaimed. "What's the use of
beating round the bush? I saw your letter--read your letter--by
mistake."

"My letter?"

"Your letter to your brother. Through some mistake I was given the
final page--a fragment merely--instead of your brother's reply to be
brought to you. I was asked to read it--which I did. Is that enough?"

"My letter to---- The last----" At a sudden memory of that letter's
last page, with her heart's confession upon it, she burned a blinding
crimson. "You read----" she stammered, "--and now----" She could not
look him in the face. She leaned against the stair in sudden weakness.

"After that," he said, "does my conduct occasion surprise?"

What he meant, in the light of the letter as she had written it to
Glen, as she thought he must have read it, was beyond her
comprehension. She had fondly believed he loved her. He had told her
so in actions, words, and kisses. What terrible secret, deep hidden in
his breast, could possibly lie behind this thing was more than mind
could fathom. Or did he scorn and loathe her now for having succumbed
to his love? He had read her confession that she loved him more than
anything else in all the world. He knew the last faint word in her
heart--and flung her away like this!

She cast one frightened, inquiring look at his face. It was set and
hard as stone. The light in his eyes was cold, an accusing glitter.
She felt herself utterly abashed, utterly shamed. Her heart had lain
naked before him, throbbing with its secret. His foot was upon it.
There was nothing to cover its nakedness--nothing to cover her
confusion.

For a moment she stood there, attempting to shrink within herself. Her
attitude of pain and shame appeared to him as guilt. He felt the whole
thing poignantly--felt sorry to send his shaft so truly home, sorry to
see the effect of the blow. But, what was the use? His was the way of
plain, straightforward dealing. Better one swift wound, even unto
death, than a lingering torture for years.

He opened his lips as if to speak. But there was nothing more to say.
He turned towards