ispered. "I don't think I
could bear that."

She looked at him with steady eyes.

"You will not have it to bear," she said. "I shall never regret it."

Still he hesitated. But the dawn of a great hope grew and deepened in
his face.

"If you could be content to live here--at Far End . . . It is just
possible!" He spoke reflectively, as though debating the matter with
himself. "The curse has not followed me to this quiet little corner of
the earth. Perhaps--after all . . . Sara, could you stand such a life?
Or would you always be longing to get out into the great world? As I've
told you, the world is shut to me. There's that in my past which blocks
the way to any future. Have you the faith--the _courage_--to face that?"

Her eyes, steadfast and serene, met his.

"I have courage to face anything--with you, Garth. But I haven't courage
to face living without you."

He bent his head and kissed her on the mouth--a slow, lingering kiss
that held something far deeper and more enduring than mere passion. And
Sara, as she kissed him back, her soul upon her lips, felt as though
together they had partaken of love's holy sacrament.

"Beloved"--Garth's voice, unspeakably tender, came to her through the
exquisite silence of the moment--"Beloved, it shall be as you wish.
Whether I am right or wrong in taking this great gift you offer me--God
knows! If I am wrong--then, please Heaven, whatever punishment there be
may fall on me alone."

CHAPTER XXIII

A SUMMER IDYLL

The summer, of all seasons of the year, is very surely the perfect time
for lovers, and to Sara the days that followed immediately upon her
engagement to Garth Trent were days of unalloyed happiness.

These were wonderful hours which they passed together, strolling
through the summer-foliaged woods, or lazing on the sun-baked sands, or,
perhaps, roaming the range of undulating cliffs that stretched away to
the west from the headland where Far End stood guard.

During those hours of intimate companionship, Sara began to learn the
hidden deeps of Garth's nature, discovering the almost romantic delicacy
of thought that underlay his harsh exterior.

"You're more than half a poet, my Garth!" she told him one day.

"A transcendental fool, in other words," he amended, smiling.
"Well"--looking at her oddly--"perhaps you're right. But it's too late
to improve me any. As the twig is bent, so the tree grows, you know."

"I don't want to improve you," Sara assur