ression which will dwell
in my memory, when memory itself will seem only a dream. You, Lou,
standing just here, so close to me that your sweet breath fans my
cheek, your dear hands in mine, the scent of sweet peas in my
nostrils. The light of this lamp throws a golden radiance over you,
your lips are quivering--oh! ever so slightly, and your eyes reveal to
me the exquisiteness of your soul. Lou, I am a lucky mortal to have
such a vision on which to let my memory dwell!"

She listened in silence, enjoying the delight of hearing him
unburdening his soul at last. His love for her! Never had it seemed so
great and so pure, now that he spoke of parting! And there was a
quaint joy in hearing him thus rambling on--he, the reserved man of
the world. Convention had so often sealed his lips, and restrained his
passion when he was still wandering happily with her on the smooth
paths of Love. Now Fate had hurled stone upon stone down that path.
The way was rugged and difficult, parting too, was close at hand; all
the restraint of past months tore at the barrier of convention. Luke
about to lose the mortal presence of his love, allowed his lips to say
that which he had hidden in his heart for so long. The man of the
world lost himself in the man who loved.

When he had ceased speaking she said quietly:

"You talk, Luke, as if we were going to part."

"To-night, Lou. I must catch the night boat to Calais."

"My luggage can be sent on," she rejoined simply. "I am quite ready to
start."

"To start?" he repeated vaguely.

"Why, yes, Luke," she replied with a smile, "if you go to-night, or at
any time, I go with you."

"You cannot, Lou!" he stammered, almost stupidly, feeling quite
bewildered, for he had been forcibly dragged back from a happy
dreamlike state, to one of impossible reality.

"Why not?"

"You have said it yourself, Lou. I shall be a fugitive from justice .
. . a man with whom no decent woman would care to link her fate."

"Let us admit then," she said almost gaily, "that I am not a decent
woman, for my fate is irretrievably linked with yours."

"This is preposterous . . ." he began.

But already she had interrupted him, speaking quietly in that even,
contralto voice of hers which he loved to hear.

"Luke," she said, "you must try and understand. You must, because I
have so fully made up my mind, that nothing that you could say would
make me change it, unless you told me that you no longer loved me. And
t