He began to tremble from head to foot. There was a long silence. She had

turned quite away from him. When he spoke, his voice was as low as hers,

and he spoke as slowly as she had.

"You mean--then--it was--you?"

"Yes."

"You!"

"Yes."

"And you have been here all the time?"

"All--all except the week you were--hurt, and that--that one evening."

The bright veil which wrapped them was drawn away, and they stood in the

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silent, gathering dusk.

He tried to loosen his neck-band; it seemed to be choking him. "I--I

can't--I don't comprehend it. I am trying to realize what it----"

"It means nothing," she answered.

"There was an editorial, yesterday," he said, "an editorial that I thought

was about Rodney McCune. Did you write it?"

"Yes."

"It was about--me--wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"It said--it said--that I had won the love of every person in Carlow

County."

Suddenly she found her voice. "Do not misunderstand me," she said rapidly.

"I have done the little that I have done out of gratitude." She faced him

now, but without meeting his eyes. "I told you, remember, that you would

understand some day what I meant by that, and the day has come. I owed you

more gratitude than a woman ever owed a man before, I think, and I would

have died to pay a part of it. I set every gossip's tongue in Rouen

clacking at the very start, in the merest amateurish preparation for the

work Mr. Macauley gave me. That was nothing. And the rest has been the

happiest time in my life. I have only pleased myself, after all!"

"What gratitude did you owe me?"

"What gratitude? For what you did for my father."

"I have only seen your father once in my life--at your table at the dance

supper, that night."

"Listen. My father is a gentle old man with white hair and kind eyes. You

saw my uncle, that night; he has been as good to me as a father, since I

was seven years old, and he gave me his name by law and I lived with him.

My father came to see me once a year; I never came to see him. He always

told me everything was well with him; that his life was happy. Once he

lost the little he had left to him in the world, his only way of making

his living. He had no friends; he was hungry and desperate, and he

wandered. I was dancing and going about wearing jewels--only--I did not

know. All the time the brave heart wrote me happy letters. I should have

known, for there was one who did, and who saved him. When at last I came

to see my father, he told me. He had written of his idol before; but it

was not till I came that he told it all to me. Do you know what I felt?

While his daughter was dancing cotillions, a stranger had taken his hand--

and--" A sob rose in her throat and checked her utterance for a moment;

but she threw up her head and met his eyes proudly. "Gratitude, Mr.

Harkless!" she cried. "I am James Fisbee's daughter."




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