n't give up mine; but our
hearts are one."

Her voice sang like music in his ears, and something in his aching heart
was saying: "What are the laws we make for ourselves compared to the laws
God makes for us?" Suddenly he felt something warm. It was Glory's breath
on his hand. A fragrance like incense seemed to envelop him. He gasped as
if suffocating, and sat down on the sofa.

"You are wrong, dear, if you think I care for the man you speak of. He
has been very good to me and helped me in my career, but he is nothing to
me--nothing whatever--But we are such old friends, John? It seems
impossible to remember a time when we were not old chums, you and I!
Sometimes I dream of those dear old days in the 'lil oilan'! Aw, they
were ter'ble--just ter'ble! Do you remember the boat--the _Gloria_--do
you remember her?" (He clinched his hands as though to hold on to his
purpose, but it was slipping through his fingers like sand.) "What times
they were! Coming round the castle of a summer evening when the bay and
the sky were like two sheets of silvered glass looking into each other,
and you and I singing 'John Peel'" (in a quavering voice she sang a bar
or two): "'D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay? D'ye ken John
Peel'---Do you remember it, John?"

She was sobbing and laughing by turns. It was her old self, and the cruel
years seemed to roll back. But still he struggled. "What is the love of
the body to the love of the soul?" he told himself.

"You wore flannels then, and I was in a white jersey--like this, see,"
and she snatched up from the mantelpiece the photograph he had been
looking at. "I got up my first act in imitation of it, and sometimes in
the middle of a scene--such a jolly scene, too--my mind goes back to
that sweet old time and I burst out crying."

He pushed the photograph away. "Why do you remind me of those days?" he
said. "Is it only to make me realize the change in you?" But even at that
moment the wonderful eyes pierced him through and through.

"Am I so much changed, John? Am I? No, no, dear! It is only my hair done
differently. See, see!" and with trembling fingers she tore her hair from
its knot. It fell in clusters over her shoulders and about her face. He
wanted to lay his hand on it, and he turned to her and then turned away,
fighting with himself as with an enemy.

"Or is it this old rag of lace that is so unlike my jersey?
There--there!" she cried, tearing the lace from her neck, and throwi