you don't lie to
me!"

"I have lied," he said; "but I can't go on lying any more! It's been
hell. Of course you'll never forgive me."

Instantly she was on her knees beside him, and her lips trembled against
his cheek; but she was silent. She was agonizing, not for herself, but
for him; _he had suffered_. And when that thought came, Love rose like a
wave and swept jealousy away! It was impossible for her to speak. Over
in his basket old Bingo growled.

"It was years ago," he said, very low; "I haven't--had anything to do
with her since; but--"

She said, gasping, "Do you ... love her still?"

"Good God! no; I never loved her."

"Then," she said, "I don't mind."

His arms went about her, his head dropped on her shoulder. The little
dog, unnoticed, barked angrily. For a few minutes neither of them could
speak. To him, the unexpectedness of forgiveness was an absolute shock.
Eleanor, her cheek against his hair, wept. Happy tears! Then she
whispered:

"There is ... a child?"

He nodded speechlessly.

"Maurice, I will love it--"

He was too overcome to speak. Here she was, this irritating, foolish,
faithful woman, coming, with outstretched, forgiving arms--to rescue him
from his long deceit!

"I have known it," she said, "for nearly two years."

"And you never spoke of it!"

"I couldn't."

"I want to tell you everything, Eleanor. It was--that Dale woman."

She pressed very close to him: "I know."

He wondered swiftly how she knew, but he did not stop to ask; his words
rushed out; it was as if the jab of a lancet had opened a hidden wound:
"I never cared a copper for her. Never! But--it happened. I was angry
about something, and,--Oh, I'm not excusing myself. There isn't any
excuse! But I met her, and somehow--Oh, Eleanor!"

"Maurice, ... what does she call you?"

"Call me? What do you mean?"

"What name?"

"Why, 'Mr. Curtis,' of course."

"Not 'Maurice'? Oh--I'm so glad! Go on."

"Well, I never saw her again until she wrote to me about ... this child.
Eleanor! I tried to tell you. Do you remember? One night in the boarding
house--the night of the eclipse? I thought you'd never forgive me, but I
tried to tell you ... Oh, Star, you are wonderful!"

It was an amazing moment; he said to himself: "Mrs. Houghton was right.
Edith was right. How I have misjudged her!" He went on, Eleanor still
kneeling beside him, sometimes holding his hand to her lips, sometimes
pressing her wet cheek against his;