ible . . ?"

"Darling, of course it is," she whispered back, without stirring.
"Only--will you ever forgive me? I've saddled you with two women now,
as if one wasn't bother enough!"

For answer he strained her closer; and so knelt for the space of many
seconds; stunned, momentarily, by that deep-rooted, elemental joy in
the transmission of life, which, in men of fine fibre, is tempered with
amazement and awe; a sense of poignant, personal contact with the Open
Secret of the world.

At last he spoke; and his words held no suggestion of the emotion that
uplifted him.

"When? How old . . . how long ago?"

"Seven weeks ago. The second of October."

"Great Heaven! The day I was nearly done for; the day I crossed the
Pass. And I never dreamed . . . how it was with you."

Then, very gently, she found her head lifted from its resting-place;
his eyes searching her own with an insistence not to be denied.

"Quita, you must have realised--all this before I started?"

"Yes."

"And you let me go without a word! By the Lord, I think I had the
right to know."

Her lips trembled a little at the reproach in his tone; but she did not
avert her eyes.

"Of course you had the right," she acknowledged with a flash of her old
frankness. "But things were going crooked just then. It all seemed so
strange, so difficult to speak of; and I thought if you were delayed it
would save you from anxiety, not to know. Besides--I confess I knew it
would mean . . . a great deal to you; and I wanted to win you all my
own self, before I told you. There! That's the whole truth. Can you
forgive me?"

"Forgive you, my darling? To-day of all days! I am at your feet."

She drew a deep breath. "That is quite wrong! But I can't pretend not
to be proud of it; though in theory I object to pedestals as much as
ever! And now----" she laid both hands upon him, her eyes full of
laughter and tenderness. "Now--don't you want to come and see--the
other woman?"

At that, his gravity went to pieces.

"Woman indeed! Bless her heart. Naturally I do. Hasn't she achieved
a name yet?"

"No, poor little heathen. I told her she must wait for you; though the
matter was settled long ago. What else could we call her--but Honor?
And I pray she may be worthy of the name. Both the Desmonds will stand
for her. I thought you would wish it; for, indeed, without their great
goodness to us both she might never have found her way into the world
a