in the night an owl hooted, and Nap
turned his head sharply, as one accustomed to take note of every sound.
A while longer he stood, seeming to listen, every limb alert and tense,
then swiftly he wheeled and gazed full at the drooping woman's figure on
the bench.

Slowly his attitude changed. Something that was bestial went out of it;
something that was human took its place. Quietly at length he crossed
the moonlit space that intervened between them, reached her, knelt
beside her.

"Anne," he said, and all her life she remembered the deep melancholy of
his voice, "I am a savage--a brute--a devil. But I swear that I have it
in me to love you--as you deserve to be loved. Won't you have patience
with me? Won't you give me a chance--the only chance I've ever had--of
getting above myself, of learning what love can be? Won't you trust me
with your friendship once more? Believe me, I'm not all brute."

She thrilled like a dead thing waked to life. Her dread of the man passed
away like an evil dream, such was the magic he had for her. She slipped
one of her cold hands down to him.

He caught it, bowed his head upon it, pressed it against his eyes, then
lifted his face and looked up at her.

"It is not the end then? You haven't given me up in disgust?"

And she answered him in the only way possible to her. "I will be
your friend still, only--only let there never again be any talk of
love between us. That alone will end our friendship. Can I trust
you? Nap, can I?"

He jerked back his head at the question, and showed her his face in the
full moonlight. And she saw that his eyes were still and passionless,
unfathomable as a mountain pool.

"If you can bring yourself--if you will stoop--to kiss me," he said, "I
think you will know."

She started at the words, but she knew instantly that she had nought to
fear. His voice was as steady as his eyes. He asked this thing of her as
a sign of her forgiveness, of her friendship, of her trust; and every
generous impulse urged her to grant it. She knew that if she refused he
would get up and go away, cut to the heart. She seemed to feel him
pleading with her, earnestly beseeching her, reasoning against prejudice,
against the shackles of conventionality, against reason itself. And
through it all her love for the man throbbed at the very heart of her,
overriding all doubt.

She leaned towards him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders.

"In token of my trust!" she said, and bent