t and hope for the best. You
want a protector, don't you? And I--should like to be the one to
protect you if--if it were ever possible for you to think of me in
that light."

He spoke with immense effort. He was afraid of scaring her, afraid of
hurting her desolate young heart, afraid almost of the very impulse
that moved him to speak.

Absolute silence reigned when he ended.

Muriel had become suddenly rigid, and so still that she did not seem
to breathe. For several seconds he waited, but still she made no sign.
He had not the remotest clue to guide him. He began to feel as if a
door had unexpectedly closed against him, not violently, but steadily,
soundlessly, barring him out.

It was but a fleeting impression. In a few moments more it was gone.
She drew a long quivering breath, and turned slightly towards him.

"I would rather trust myself to you," she said, "than to any one else
in the world."

She spoke in her deep, sincere voice which gave him no doubt that she
meant what she said, and at once his own trepidation departed. He put
his arm around her, and pressed her close to him.

"Come to me then," he said very tenderly. "And I will take such care
of you, Muriel, that no one shall ever frighten you again."

She yielded to his touch as simply as a child, leaning her head
against him with a little, weary gesture of complete confidence. She
was desperately tired of standing alone.

"I know I shall be safe with you," she whispered.

"Quite safe, dear," he answered gravely. He paused a moment as though
irresolute; then, still holding her closely, he bent and kissed her
forehead.

He did it very quietly and reverently, but at the action she started,
almost shrank. One of those swift flashes of memory came suddenly upon
her, and as in a vision she beheld another face bending over her--a
yellow, wrinkled face of terrible emaciation, with eyes of flickering
fire--eyes that never slept--and heard a voice, curiously broken
and incoherent that seemed to pray. She could not catch the words it
uttered.

The old wild panic rushed over her, the old frenzied longing to
escape. With a sobbing gasp she turned in Grange's arms, and clung to
him.

"Oh, Captain Grange," she panted piteously, "promise--promise you will
never let me go!"

Her agitation surprised him, but it awaked in him a responsive
tenderness that compassed her with a strength bred rather of emergency
than habit.

"My little girl, I swear I will