do it, don't I pray of you--don't
bring that man back."

"Why, Greeba, what is this?" said Michael Sunlocks. "What is it
troubles my little woman?"

"Dear Michael," she cried once more, "for your own sake think again
before you sign that pardon."

"Ah, I see," said he, "my darling has been all unstrung by this ugly
business. Yes, and now I remember what they told me down at Smoky
Point. It was my love herself that gave the poor lad up to justice.
That was very brave of my darling; for her husband, bless her dear
heart, was before all the world to her. Ah, yes, I know that all her
love is mine, her love is first and last with her as with all warm
natures. But she must not fear for me. No, she must not worry, but go
back, like a dear soul, and leave this matter to me."

"Michael, my dear, noble Michael, I have something to say; will you
not hear me?"

"No, no, no," he answered.

"Not for a moment? I have set my heart on telling you."

"Not for one little moment. But if you have set your heart on
anything else, then, my darling, just think of it double, whatever it
is, and it is yours already."

"But why may I not speak of this pardon?"

"Because, though I have never yet set eyes upon this poor man I know
more about him than my darling can ever know, and because it is
natural that her sweet little heart, that is as brave as a lion for
herself but as timid as a fawn for me, should exaggerate my peril. So
now, no more words about it, but go, go."

She was about to obey when the maid came to say that dinner was
ready. And then with a little shout of joy Michael Sunlocks threw
down his papers, encircled his arm about Greeba's waist, and drew her
along laughing, with her smiles fighting their way through her tears.

During the dinner he talked constantly of the dangers and trials and
amusing mischances of his voyage, laughing at them all now they were
over, and laughing at Greeba, too, for the woeful face with which she
heard of them. And when they rose from the table he called on her for
another song, and she sat at the harpsichord and sang, though
something was swelling in her throat and often her heart was in her
mouth. But he recked nothing of this, and only laughed when her sweet
voice failed her, and filled up the breaks with his own rich tones.

In the midst of the singing the maid came in and said something which
Michael Sunlocks did not catch, for it was drowned to his ear by the
gladsome uproar that h