seven--years," she said, as if speaking to
herself. "He would not move--now!"

"No; I don't think he would move now."

His own voice was low, scarcely above a whisper, and she looked at him
quickly and strangely, a flush in her cheeks.

It was late when he bade her good-night. Again he felt the warm thrill
of her hand as it lay in his. The next afternoon he was to take her
driving.

The days and weeks that followed these first meetings with Josephine
McCloud were weighted with many things for Philip. Neither she nor her
father enlightened him about Peter God. Several times he believed that
Josephine was on the point of confiding in him, but each time there
came that strange fear in her eyes, and she caught herself.

Philip did not urge. He asked no questions that might be embarrassing.
He knew, after the third week had passed, that Josephine could no
longer be unconscious of his love, even though the mystery of Peter God
restrained him from making a declaration of it. There was not a day in
the week that they did not see each other. They rode together. The
three frequently dined together. And still more frequently they passed
the evenings in the McCloud apartments. Philip had been correct in his
guess--they were from Montreal. Beyond that fact he learned little.

As their acquaintance became closer and as Josephine saw in Philip more
and more of that something which he had not spoken, a change developed
in her. At first it puzzled and then alarmed him. At times she seemed
almost frightened. One evening, when his love all but trembled on his
lips, she turned suddenly white.

It was the middle of July before the words came from him at last. In
two or three weeks he was starting for the North. It was evening, and
they were alone in the big room, with the cool breeze from the lake
drifting in upon them. He made no effort to touch her as he told her of
his love, but when he had done, she knew that a strong man had laid his
heart and his soul at her feet.

He had never seen her whiter. Her hands were clasped tightly in her
lap. There was a silence in which he did not breathe. Her answer came
so low that he leaned forward to hear.

"I am sorry," she said. "It is my fault--that you love me. I knew. And
yet I let you come again and again. I have done wrong. It is not
fair--now--for me to tell you to go--without a chance. You--would want
me if I did not love you? You would marry me if I did not love you?"

His heart