that was
half sob. "I was frightened, yes."

"There is no cause. A dozen other men take the same chance as Rupert
and I; the driver who alternates with me, for instance. This is our
life."

"Your arm--"

"Is well enough." He laughed a little. "You will see many a bandaged
arm before the twenty-four hours are up; few of us finish without a
scratch or strain or blister. This is a man's game, but it's not half
so destructive as foot-ball. You wished me good luck for the Georgia
race; will you repeat the honor before I go back to Ffrench?"

"I wish you," she said unsteadily, "every kind of success, now and
always. You saved Dick to-day--of all else you have done for him and
for me I have not words to speak. But it made it harder to bear the
thought of your hurt and risk from the hurt, when I knew that I had
sent Dick there, who caused it."

Lestrange hesitated, himself troubled. Her soft loveliness in the
delicate light that left her eyes unreadable depths of shadow, her
timidity and anxiety for his safety, were from their very
unconsciousness most dangerous. And while he grasped at self-control,
she came still nearer to the head of the steps and held out her small
fair hand, mistaking his silence for leave-taking.

"Good night; and I thank you for coming. I am not used to so much
consideration."

Her accents were unsure when she would have made them most certain,
with her movement the handkerchief fell from her girdle to his feet.
Mechanically Lestrange recovered the bit of linen, and felt it lie wet
in his fingers. Wet--

"Emily!" he cried abruptly, and sprang the brief step between them.

Her white, terrified face turned to him in the moonlight, but he saw
her eyes. And seeing, he kissed her.

The moment left no time for speech. Some one was coming down the
drawing-room toward the long windows. Dick's impatient whistle sounded
shrilly from the park. Panting, quivering, Emily drew from the embrace
and fled within.

She had no doubt of Lestrange, no question of his serious meaning--he
had that force of sincerity which made his silence more convincing
than the protestations of others. But alone in her room she laid her
cheek against the hand his had touched.

"I wish I had died in the convent," she cried to her heart. "I wish I
had died before I made him unhappy too."

VII

Morning found a pale and languid Emily across the breakfast table from
Mr. Ffrench. Yet, by a contradiction of the heart, he