, speak, and I will listen."

"I love you," she said brokenly.

Their full hearts throbbed together as he answered:

"That is enough."

"It is all--the utmost," she went on. "I can never marry you. When you
loose me from your arms to-night it will be forever. Hold me close a
little longer while I tell you."

Her voice was faint and uncertain; her frame was trembling; he could
feel the whole weight of her body upon him, as he held her against his
exultant heart, while the power that had come into him gave him a
strength so mighty that he supported the sweet burden as if its weight
were nothing.

"Go on," he murmured gently, in a secure and quiet tone, "I am
listening."

"I only want to tell you, if I can, how much I love you. I want you to
know it all, that the torment of having it unsaid may leave me."

Of her own will she raised her arms and put them about his neck, laying
down her face on one of them, so that her lips were close against his
ear.

"At the first," she said, "I liked and admired you because I saw you
were good and noble. Then I trusted you, and made your truth my anchor
in the awful seas of trouble I was tossed in. Then I came to reverence
and almost worship you for the highness that is in you, and then, oh,
then after my baby died and my other dreadful sorrow came, against my
will, in spite of hard fighting and struggling and trying, I went a step
higher yet and loved you, with a love that takes in all the rest--that
is admiration, and trust, and reverence, and love in one. Oh," she said
with a great sigh, "but it is all in vain! I cannot tell you--I cannot!
I say the utmost, and it seems pale and poor and miserably weak. You do
not understand the love you have called into being in my poor, broken
heart. I thought I should have the comfort of feeling I had told you. I
feel only that I have failed! Oh, before we part, I want you to know
how I love you--how the stress of it is bursting my heart--how the
mightiness of it seems to expand my soul until it touches Heaven. Oh,
if I could only ease my heart of its great weight of love by finding
words to tell you."

He put his lips close to her ear.

"One kiss," he said softly, and then turned them to meet hers.

Christine gave him the kiss, and it was as he had said. The stress upon
her heart was loosened. She felt that she had told him all.

"You are mine," he said, in a calm, low voice of controlled exultation,
although, even as he said it,