the hood on her head. She looked up under her
pointed hood.

"Do you care so much for me?" she asked, listlessly.

"Will you give me the right--always--forever?"

"Do you mean that--that you love me?"

"I have always loved you."

Still she looked up at him from the shadow of her hood.

"I love you, Lorraine."

One arm was around her now, and with the other hand he held both
of hers.

She spoke, her eyes on his.

"I loved you once. I did not know it then. It was the first night
there on the terrace--when they were dancing. I loved you
again--after our quarrel, when you found me by the river. Again
I loved you, when we were alone in the Chateau and you came to
see me in the library."

He drew her to him, but she resisted.

"Now it is different," she said. "I do not love you--like that. I
do not know what I feel; I do not care for that--for that love. I
need something warmer, stronger, more kindly--something I never
have had. My childhood is gone, Jack, and yet I am tortured with
the craving for it; I want to be little again--I want to play
with children--with young girls; I want to be tired with pleasure
and go to bed with a mother bending over me. It is that--it is
that that I need, Jack--a mother to hold me as you do. Oh, if you
knew--if you knew! Beside my bed I feel about in the dark, half
asleep, reaching out for the mother I never knew--the mother I
need. I picture her; she is like my father, only she is always
with me. I lie back and close my eyes and try to think that she
is there in the dark--close--close. Her cheeks and hands are
warm; I can never see her eyes, but I know they are like mine. I
know, too, that she has always been with me--from the years that
I have forgotten--always with me, watching me that I come to no
harm--anxious for me, worrying because my head is hot or my hands
cold. In my half-sleep I tell her things--little intimate things
that she must know. We talk of everything--of papa, of the house,
of my pony, of the woods and the Lisse. With her I have spoken of
you often, Jack. And now all is said; I am glad you let me tell
you, Jack. I can never love you like--like that, but I need you,
and you will be near me, always, won't you? I need your love. Be
gentle, be firm in little things. Let me come to you and fret.
You are all I have."

The intense grief in her face, the wide, childish eyes, the cold
little hands tightening in his, all these touched the manhood in
him, and he an