o, no! It was my own idea entirely."

"But I can't reconcile that with your character, Miss Pennycuick."

"Nor can I," she laughed bitterly.

"There's a mystery somewhere. Did anybody tell you anything? Did Miss
Frances put constructions on innocent appearances? Did--"

"No," Mary resolutely stopped him. "It is good of you to try to make
excuses, but there is no excuse for me--none. Francie only said what
she knew. I let them believe you were my lover; I am twenty-seven--I
never had one--and--and--oh, I thought that, at least, you might be
mine when you were dead! I did not mean to be a liar, as you called
me--yes, that is the right word--"

"Forgive me for using it," he muttered. "You do not realise at first
that you are lying, when you only act lies and don't speak them. And I
DID think that perhaps, that possibly--of course, I was ridiculously
wrong--it was atrocious, unforgivable--I don't ask you to forgive me--I
don't want you to--but those dear days when our little boy--oh, you
know!--and when you kissed me that night beside his grave--"

"WHAT!" A lightning change came over the young man, as if the word had
been an electric current suddenly shot into him. "KISSED YOU?"

"It was nothing; you did not know you did it--"

"But here--hold on--this is serious. DID I kiss YOU? You are sure you
are not dreaming?"

"I would not be very likely to dream that," she said, with a strange
smile. "But of course it was only--at such a time--as you would have
kissed your sister--anybody. Your very forgetting it shows that."

But a dim memory was awakening in him, frightfully perturbing to his
mind.

"I KISSED you!" he repeated, and slowly realised that he had been that
consummate ass. The poor baby's dead hand had retained its old power to
entrap a simpleton unawares.

Well, simpleton or not, Guthrie Carey was Guthrie Carey--sailor-bred,
accustomed to meet vital emergencies with boldness and promptness;
accustomed also to take his own views of what was a man's part at such
times. While she implored him to say no more about that kiss, crying
shame upon herself for mentioning it, he sat in silence, thinking hard.
As soon as she had done, he spoke:

"Miss Pennycuick, I now understand everything. You are completely
justified. It is I who have been to blame." And he then, in precise
language, such as no real lover could have used, but still as prettily
as was possible under the circumstances, requested the honour of her