im involuntarily; but even though it contained an element of
possible cruelty, it was not purely physical. Perhaps a realisation of
this fact allowed her to shelve upon him entirely the responsibility of
her impulsiveness.

"Come over here, Tom," she pleaded, drawing him into the corner, "and
sit down. I want to tell you something. Besides, I 'm half dead with
standing."

The hint of pathos in her last words was lost upon him, for he was
almost incapable of appreciating physical weariness. He knew her ready
forgiveness also so well that he took it for granted, without even
offering an explanation of his lateness. It was characteristic of
their relationship that he felt no desire to tell, nor she to hear, the
details of the political struggle now drawing to a close. She was too
purely his sweetheart to share his cares; her loving embrace sufficed
for their lightening. Even in the shadow of their retreat they could
see each other's faces distinctly, hers moonlike, with hair like an
halo of the moon, and his of more swarthy hue. If she was beautiful in
his eyes, he fulfilled no less her ideal of manhood; and certainly an
impartial witness could not have said that either judgment was
unfounded.

"Well," he began, after surveying her a few moments with appreciation,
"out with it. Some new man is chasing after you. Who is he?"

She leaned her face against his shoulder, then sat up and shook her
head prettily, pleased with the thought of his jealousy.

"I can't help it, Tom. That impudent little Hollister Pyle won't give
me a moment's peace."

"What does he do?" Emmet catechised grimly.

"He makes a grab for me every time I pass him on the stairs; that is,
when his mother is n't looking."

"Why don't you turn around and break his face?" he demanded angrily,
lapsing into graphic vernacular. The suggestion was obviously too
absurd to need reply. "I 'd like to get my hands on the young whelp,"
he went on, squaring his shoulders. "I would n't leave a whole bone in
his body."

"You can't do that, Tom, dear," she expostulated, in gentle alarm.

"No, I can't," he admitted reluctantly. "It would n't do to be pinched
for assault and battery only a fortnight before election. I won't
write him a threatening anonymous letter, either. That is n't my way
of doing business. I tell you, Lena, you 've got to get rid of him,
yourself."

"I will," she declared, with what was, for her, a tone of decision. "I
'm g