l
reason to a man's own self thereby blazon its absurdity to the whole
world?

"So long ago!" I cried scornfully.

"Nay, not so long ago," she murmured, with a note of resentment in her
voice.

Even then we might have fallen out; we were in an ace of it, for I most
brutally put this question:

"You waited here for me to pass?"

I would have given my ears not to have said it; what availed that? A
thing said is a thing done, and stands for ever amid the irrevocable.
For an instant her eyes flashed in anger; then she flushed suddenly, her
lips trembled, her eyes grew dim, yet through the dimness mirth peeped
out.

"I dared not hope you'd pass," she whispered.

"I am the greatest villain in the world!" I cried. "Barbara, you had no
thought that I should pass!"

Again came silence. Then I spoke, and softly:

"And you--is it long since you----?"

She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms.
First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circle
of my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in a
confession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame was
swallowed in the sweet pride of surrender.

"Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always,
always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough.

In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, I
could not believe it.

"But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know.
Simon, do you remember how you left me?"

It seemed that I must play penitent now.

"I was too young to know----" I began.

"I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through those
days at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know.
Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!"

"On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that,
sweetheart."

"I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," said
Barbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought you
to my door that night?"

I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time,
more plainly, it may be, than even then I should:

"She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far."

"You followed her?"

"Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped."

"You stopped for my voice; what did I say?"

"You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed."

"Ah, why didn't y