ns when she visited the
graves of her youthful heroines; among other things the delightful sense
of unreality. But the unreality was of another sort to-day. They were a
part of an insignificant past. Trennahan elevated one foot to a massive
stone and plucked the "stickers" from his trousers.

"This is all very romantic," he said, "but these confounded things are
uncomfortable. Have you found your graves?"

"I think this is Benicia's. We can go if you like."

"By no means." He went and leaned over the sunken grey stone which
recorded the legend of Benicia Ortega's brief life and tragic death,
then insisted upon finding the others.

"You don't take any interest," said Magdalena. "Why do you pretend?"

He caught her in his arms and seated her on the highest and driest of
the tombs, then sat beside her. He kept his arm about her, but he did
not kiss her. "Come now," he said, "let us have it out. We must not
quarrel. I humble myself to the dust. I vow to be a saint. I will not
exchange two consecutive sentences with your friend in the future. Make
me promise all sorts of things."

"If you love her, you can't help yourself."

"I have no intention of loving her. Perhaps you will be as sweet and
sensible as you always are, and not say anything so absurd again. I am
deeply sorry that I have offended you. Will you believe that? And will
you forgive me?"

"Do you mean that you still wish to marry me?"

"Great Heaven, 'Lena! Even if my head were turned, do you think that I
have not brains enough to remember that that sort of thing is a matter
of the hour only, and that I am a man of honour? I have no less
intention of marrying you to-day than I had yesterday. Does that satisfy
you? And--since you take it so hardly--I wish I might never see Miss
Belmont again."

Magdalena raised her eyes; they were full of tears. Her hat was pushed
back, her soft hair ruffled. In the deep shade of the oaks and with the
passion in her face she looked prettier than he had ever seen her. A
kiss sprang to her lips. He bent his head swiftly and caught it; and
then he was delighted at the depth of his penitence.

* * * * *

"'Lena, you ought to hate me, but I didn't know! I swear I didn't!"

"I know you did not. He told me that it was entirely his fault, and I
have forgiven him; so don't let us say any more about it."

"Well, I am glad he admitted that. I'm pretty selfish, as I've never
denied, but I'd never