s sounded foolish to
himself. He tried to cover them. "Won't you sit down? I'm--I'm
glad. . . ." A wave of crimson surged to his face. "Oh, my God! I am
glad to see you," he said hoarsely.

He groped backwards for his chair and fell into it.

A most humiliating weakness came over him. He hid his face in his
hands.

Christine stood looking at him with troubled eyes; then she put out her
hand and touched him timidly:

"Jimmy!"

He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. He kissed it again and
again--the little fingers, the soft palm, the slender wrist.

"I thought I should never see you again. I couldn't have borne
it. . . . Christine--oh my dear, forgive me, forgive me. I'm so
wretched, so utterly, utterly miserable. . . ."

The appeal was so boyish--so like the old selfish Jimmy whom Christine
had loved and spoilt in the days when they were both children. It
almost seemed as if the years were rolled away again and they were down
at Upton House, making up a childish quarrel--Jimmy asking for pardon,
she only too anxious to kiss and be friends.

Tears swam into her eyes and her lips trembled; but she did not move.

"I want to tell you something," she said slowly.

He looked up, his eyes full of a great dread.

"Not that you're going away--I can't bear it. You'll drive me
mad--Christine--little Christine." He was on his knees beside her now,
his arms round her waist, his face buried in the soft folds of her
dress. "Forgive me, Christine--forgive me. I love you so, and I've
been punished enough. I thought you'd gone away with that devil--that
brute Kettering. I've been half mad!" He flung back his head and
looked at her. She was very flushed. Her eyes could not meet his.

"That's--that's just what I want to tell you," she said in a whisper.

Jimmy's arms fell from about her. He rose to his feet slowly; he tried
to speak, but no words would come. Then, quite suddenly, he broke down
into sobbing.

He was very much of a boy still, was Jimmy Challoner. Perhaps he would
never grow up into a man as Kettering and Sangster understood the word;
but his very boyishness was what Christine had first loved in him.
Perhaps he could have chosen no surer or swifter way to her forgiveness
than this. . . .

In a moment her arms were round his neck. She tried to draw his head
down to her shoulder. Her sweet face was all concern and motherly
tenderness as she kissed him and kissed him.

"Don't