ith her. That and her nearness, and
the pathos of her bandaged, useless arm. Still he had not touched her.

The thing he was trying to do was more difficult for that. General
credulity to the contrary, men do not often make spoken love first. How
many men propose marriage to their women across the drawing-room or from
chair to chair? Absurd! The eyes speak first, then the arms, the lips
last. The woman is in his arms before he tells his love. It is by her
response that he gauges his chances and speaks of marriage. Actually the
thing is already settled; tardy speech only follows on swift instinct.
Stewart, wooing as men woo, would have taken the girl's hand, gained
an encouragement from it, ventured to kiss it, perhaps, and finding no
rebuff would then and there have crushed her to him; What need of words?
They would follow in due time, not to make a situation but to clarify
it.

But he could not woo as men woo. The barrier of his own weakness stood
between them and must be painfully taken down.

"I'm afraid this is stupid for you," said Anita out of the silence.
"Would you like to go to the music-room?"

"God forbid. I was thinking."

"Of what?" Encouragement this, surely.

"I was thinking how you had come into my life, and stirred it up."

"Really? I?"

"You know that."

"How did I stir it up?"

"That's hardly the way I meant to put it. You've changed everything for
me. I care for you--a very great deal."

He was still carefully in hand, his voice steady. And still he did not
touch her. Other men had made love to her, but never in this fashion, or
was he making love?

"I'm very glad you like me."

"Like you!" Almost out of hand that time. The thrill in his voice was
unmistakable. "It's much more than that, Anita, so much more that I'm
going to try to do a hideously hard thing. Will you help a little?"

"Yes, if I can." She was stirred, too, and rather frightened.

Stewart drew his chair nearer to her and sat forward, his face set and
dogged.

"Have you any idea how you were hurt? Or why?"

"No. There's a certain proportion of accidents that occur at all these
places, isn't there?"

"This was not an accident."

"No?"

"The branch of a tree was thrown out in front of the sled to send us
over the bank. It was murder, if intention is crime."

After a brief silence--

"Somebody who wished to kill you, or me?"

"Both of us, I believe. It was done by a woman--a girl, Anita. A girl I
had been li