er the
reason is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth," she paused a
little, with a catch of the breath, "Joan Meredyth could not be other
than honest and true and--and straight, Johnny. It would not be her
nature to be anything else."

"Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?" He had
risen, he stood looking at her--such a little thing, so graceful, so
lovely with the colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light
of her fine generosity. "Gipsy--" He became silent; looking at her,
strange thoughts came--wild, impossible thoughts, thoughts that come
when dreams end and one is face to face with reality. So many years he
had known her, she had been part and parcel of his life, his everyday
companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known her till
now--the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the
womanliness of this child.

"I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt," she
said. "I heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not
like you. Usually you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read
your paper. You never rise and move about the room as to-night."

"How do you know?"

She laughed shortly. "I know--everything," she said. "I listen to you
night after night. I always have for years. I have heard you come up and
go to your room, always. I always wait for that!"

"Gipsy, why--why should you?"

"Because," she said--"because--" And then she said no more, and would
have turned away, her errand done, but that he hastened to her and
caught her by the hand.

"Gipsy, wait. Don't go. Why did you come to tell me this of Joan
to-night?"

"Because since you have asked her to be your wife, you belong to her,
and you should not doubt her. She is above doubt--she could not be as
some women, underhand and treacherous, deceitful. That would not be Joan
Meredyth."

"And yet you do not like her, dear. Why not?"

"I can't--tell you." She tried to wrench her hand free, yet he held it
strongly, and looked down into her eyes.

What did he see there? What tale did they in their honesty tell him,
that hers lips must never utter? Was he less blind at this moment than
ever before in his life? Johnny Everard never rightly understood.

"Good night," he said, "Gipsy, good night," and would have drawn her to
him to kiss her--as usual, but she resisted.

"Please, please don't!" she said, and looked at him.

Her lips were quivering, the