ly within the parlor door, her
cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With a
single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes
clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.
For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of
confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.

"You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak
lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was not
like you to do that."

"I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"
he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them.
"My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dream
it was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."

She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.

"I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to
appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forget
entirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of you
in the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave me
courage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyes
to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of her
waist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of
feeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day that
you would come."

"Is it possible you mean that you wished me there?"

"Quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had I
known before. It actually seemed when I saw your face to-night as if
God had brought you--it was like a miracle. Do you know why? Because,
for the first time in three years, I can welcome you with all my heart."

"Beth, Beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of her
words, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean?
For God's sake tell me! These years have been centuries; through them
all I have been waiting your word."

She drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the back
of a chair.

"It--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "Not
until to-day was it possible for me to break the silence."

"And now--to-day?"

She smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise.

"God has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of her
waist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even wh