is own hands; the bruises had disappeared, nevertheless
this was not Cassandra's face as he had known it; there was something
new in its expression, something wonderful, something that thrilled to
his heart. Instinctively he held out his hand, and in an instant hers
lay inside it, warm and close. The great lady had disappeared; it was a
girl who was sitting beside him, a girl with soft Irish eyes and a soft
Irish voice which spoke impulsively, asking tremulous question:

"Dane! Is it my fault?"

"Your fault that I... _care_? Only in so far as you are yourself...
Once I had met you, the rest was bound to follow; but I never dreamt...
I never dared to dream that you--"

"But I did," she said quickly. "I did! I cared first; before you
thought of me... That is why I asked if it was my fault."

"I have always loved you, but I didn't understand... Cassandra, there
are some things a man can't say, but that night--I had no intention of
getting engaged to Teresa. We... the car... there was an accident...
she was afraid. I _had_ intended to propose to her months before, when
I knew you only as a name. I had given her every reason to suppose that
I should... There is not a word to be said against Teresa, but _that_
night I had come straight from you... I don't want you to think--"

"Ah!" Cassandra turned her hand to clasp his more firmly. "Need we
talk of her now? I know. I understand! We make mistakes; haven't I
made my own? but they are past, they can't be helped, and now--we are
together! I have waited so long. I don't want to talk of her, or of
anyone else, but just ourselves..."

Her eyes met his; their message was the same as that of the lips, the
beautiful vivid face was close to his own, he saw it with a clearness of
detail which had never before been possible. The dark eyelashes grew
thickly on the lower lids; underneath the lids the skin had a faint
bluish shade. Was that the explanation of the tired look which, even in
moments of animation, gave a touch of pathos to her air? The quality of
pathos was there at that moment, and with it a fragility which gripped
at Dane's heart. He forgot everything but the dearness of her, the
nearness of her, the wonder of her love. With an impetuous movement he
held out his arms and she met him half-way, swaying into them with a
soft murmur of joy.

That which Dane had foreseen had come to pass: he had confessed his love
to his friend's wife, and she lay