en happy, too. I'm a changed man
since the hour I saw you and loved you. It's only to-day I've been
wretched. Forgive me, Bev--and God forgive you if----"

"There's an 'if' for you?"

"No--no, there's no 'if' any more. You're to forgive me----that's all!"

"Oh, I do! The hard thing would be not to forgive. But--can we go on
being happy again, just as if nothing had happened?"

"Of course we can, silly child. Nothing has happened." Roger had her in
his arms now. He kissed her over and over again, till she gasped for
breath. "This has only cleared the air. As for that beastly child, I
don't care if she's a murderess. Keep her forever, if you choose. Train
her as your maid----"

"But she's not 'beastly!' And she's not the kind to have for a maid. I
think she's a lady. She seems----"

"Well, do whatever you like with her. Can I go further, to show you I
want to atone?"

"No, you can't, Roger----" Beverley nestled her face into his neck. "I
adore you!"

She closed her eyes, but opening them she happened, looking over Roger's
shoulder, to see John Heron's letter on her husband's desk. A faint
shiver ran through her body, and Roger felt it.

"What's the matter, my darling?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she answered. "A mouse ran over my grave."

V

ON THE WAY TO THE CAR

Beverley found that she could "be happy again, as if nothing had
happened" between her and Roger. For one thing, it was wonderful to feel
that she had the power to "save" a fellow-being, and wonderful to be
worshipped as Clo worshipped her. Of course, Roger "worshipped" her,
too, but it was Beverley who looked up to him. Clo looked up to her.
When Beverley went into the room presided over by Sister Lake, the
child's great black eyes dwelt upon her as the eyes of a devotee upon
the form of a goddess "come alive." Roger Sands' wife felt simply that
she was repaying God for saving her, by what she was able to do for this
Irish girl.

As soon as Clo was allowed to talk she insisted upon telling Beverley
about herself. There was, apparently, no romance or mystery in the story
of her eighteen years of life. Her mother had died when she was less
than three, but Clo could "remember her perfectly." It wasn't only the
photograph she had (a badly taken one of a young woman with a baby in
her arms), but she could see her mother's colouring. Oh, such lovely
colouring! Not dark red hair, like her own, but gold, and eyes more
brown than gray. And mother h