his feet and the pale glow that stole up
into the evening from the snowy fields touched his face.

She knew as she looked at him that something bad given him great peace.

"I've come to say good-bye," he said. Then he sat down by her side.

"No," she said, smiling, "you mustn't go. We want you--Rupert and
Margaret and I. . . ." Then softly, as though to herself, she repeated
the words, "Rupert and Margaret and I."

"Dear Mrs. Craven, one day I will come back. But tell me, Rupert spoke
to you last night?"

"Yes, he has made me so very happy. Last night we were the same again as
we used to be, and even, I think, more than we have ever been. Rupert is
growing up."

"Yes--Rupert is growing up. Did he tell you why he had, during these
weeks, been so strange and unhappy?"

"No, he gave me no real explanation. But I think that it was the
terrible death of his friend Mr. Carfax--I think that that had preyed
upon his mind."

"No, Mrs. Craven, it was more than that. He was unhappy because he knew
that it was I that had killed Carfax."

He saw a little movement pass over her--her hand trembled against her
dress. For some time they sat together there in silence, and the red sun
slipped down behind the fields; the room was suddenly dark except for
the yellow pool of light that the candles made and for the strange gleam
by the window that came from the snow.

At last she said, "Now I understand--now I understand."

"I killed him in anger--it was quite fair. No one had any idea except
Rupert, but everything helped to show him that it was I. When he saw
that I loved Margaret he was very unhappy. He saw that we had some kind
of understanding together and he thought that I had told you and that
you sympathize with me. I am going down now to tell Margaret."

"Poor, poor Olva." It was the first time that she had called him by his
Christian name. She took his hand. "Both of us together--the same thing.
I have paid, God knows I have paid, and soon, I hope, it will be over.
But your life is before you."

He looked out at the evening fields. "I'm going down now to tell
Margaret. And tomorrow I shall set out. I will not come back to Margaret
until I know that I am cleared--but I want you, while I am away, to
think of me sometimes and to talk of me sometimes to Margaret. And one
day, perhaps, I shall know that I may come back."

She put her thin hands about his head and drew it down to her and kissed
him.

"There will never b