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lost my heart. They were silent for quite a perceptible period, as if each was content to know that the other was there. Then, as he held her at arms' length, I saw him ask her:—

"Margery, how do you come to be here?"

And I saw her answer, with the light of love all over her:—

"I came for you."

"For me? Good God!" The hands which had held her fell to his sides; he seemed to stagger as if he had been dealt a blow. "Margery, you shouldn't have come."

"I had to come; I couldn't help coming; I couldn't stay away. I thought you might want me."

"Want you? As if there's ever likely to be a time when I don't want you! I was half beside myself for want of you then." She moved forward; he put up his hands as if to stop her. "You mustn't, you mustn't." He drew himself a little more erect. "Margery, I'm going to be married."

There was a look on her face as if she were bracing herself to bear.

"Is that true? Is it quite, quite certain that you're going to be married?"

"It's either that or jail."

"You are sure—perfectly sure?"

"Absolutely. Clarke is here; he wants his money; he'll take a warrant out if he doesn't get it soon. I can only get it from—her."

There was such an accent on the pronoun—I knew it from the look which was on his face. I could see she winced.

"I know; I've heard all about her. I don't know what to advise you to do. You know you will be committing a great sin—if you marry her." I noticed that both parties seemed to avoid mentioning her name. "I know you, Cecil, your weakness and your strength. I do not think you will ever cease to love me."

"I am as sure of that as that you and I are standing here; it's the only thing of which I am sure. You are part and parcel of my life, of my very being."

"That being so, do you think you ought to marry—her, even to save yourself?"

"It's not only to save myself—it's to save you. If I don't marry her I shall be sent to jail—there's no alternative. Then, when I come out, as likely as not I shall marry you."

"Well—what then?" The smile which lighted up her face was one which, my instinct told me, only comes to the woman who holds the world well lost for love. Her question made him flame into anger.

"What then? Everything then! Margery, you sha'n't marry a jail-bird—you shall not. If I'm to be branded as a felon, I'll never carry on the brand to you, and to our children—never, never. As God is my witness, you shall not be a felon's wife. So the thing resolves itself into this: If I don't marry this woman I shall become a jail-bird—Clarke will make me one; then—you'll be such a temptation to me, Margery. I've been tempted once and I've fallen, but what was that temptation compared to you? I'll not dare to risk it. So it's good-bye, Margery. I've no right to kiss you; the mere thought of your lips against mine drives me mad. I'm going—I'm going to marry that woman—and I'm going to her now."

And apparently he went—he positively ran. And the girl never turned even to follow him with her eyes, but remained stock still where he had left her; then did as he had done—looked out across the night-black sea.

I sat still and watched her till I could bear it no longer; then I went to her and said:—

"Will you come with me, please, while I speak to some friends?" She glanced at me as she might have done at a ghost; I do not think she quite realized that I was a creature of flesh and blood. So I reached out and took her by the hand and said to her again: "I—I think I can help you if you'll come with me while I speak to some friends."

She did not utter a sound, or try to. I think her heart was broken. She just let me take her by the hand and lead her where I would; she moved as if she were a docile child. I saw, in the distance, that Mr. and Mrs. Curtis were still where I had left them; so I placed her on a chair within sight, and said, as if I had been speaking to a child:—

"Sit there, please, and don't move; in a few minutes I hope I'll be able to come to you again with some good news."

She sat down with meek and heart-rending obedience—she was such a picture of misery I could have cried; but I bore up till I got to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, even though I believe there was something moist in the corners of my eyes. I got to the heart of my subject without any sort of preamble.

"You know, Mrs. Curtis, I told you that I was a teacher of the deaf and dumb, and that I could tell what people are saying by watching their lips?"

"Of course you did, my dear. This is my husband, who has just come to me from New York City. Fred, this is Miss Judith Lee, of whom I was speaking to you. She's a very