ped, mechanically, and kissed her; then sprang up, quivering,
the color rushing into her cheeks. "Why, he mayn't even know!" She threw
a piteous look at her companion.

"He does know, dear--he does know."

Diana composed herself. She lifted her hands to a tress of hair that was
unfastened, and put it in its place. Instinctively she straightened her
belt, her white collar. Mrs. Colwood noticed that she was in black
again, in one of the dresses of her mourning.

* * * * *

When Marsham turned, at the sound of the latch, to see Diana coming in,
all the man's secret calculations and revolts were for the moment
scattered and drowned in sheer pity and dismay. In a few short hours can
grief so work on youth? He ran to her, but she held up a hand which
arrested him half-way. Then she closed the door, but still stood near
it, as though she feared to move, or speak, looking at him with her
appealing eyes.

"Oliver!"

He held out his hands.

"My poor, poor darling!"

She gave a little cry, as though some tension broke. Her lips almost
smiled; but she held him away from her.

"You're not--not ashamed of me?"

His protests were the natural, the inevitable protests that any man with
red blood in his veins must need have uttered, brought face to face with
so much sorrow and so much beauty. She let him make them, while her left
hand gently stroked and caressed his right hand which held hers; yet all
the time resolutely turning her face and her soft breast away, as though
she dreaded to be kissed, to lose will and identity in the mere delight
of his touch. And he felt, too, in some strange way, as though the blow
that had fallen upon her had placed her at a distance from him; not
disgraced--but consecrate.

"Will you please sit down and let us talk?" she said, after a moment,
withdrawing herself.

She pushed a chair forward, and sat down herself. The tears were in her
eyes, but she brushed them away unconsciously.

"If papa had told me!" she said, in a low voice--"if he had only told
me--before he died."

"It was out of love," said Marsham; "but yes--it would have been
wiser--kinder--to have spoken."

She started.

"Oh no--not that. But we might have sorrowed--together. And he was
always alone--he bore it all alone--even when he was dying."

"But you, dearest, shall not bear it alone!" cried Marsham, finding her
hand again and kissing it. "My first task shall be to comfort you--to
m