e to think--he must have time to think.

"You don't despise me then," she cried softly, a little catch in her
breath.

"No," he protested, and again "No."

"But you think I've done wrong."

"No. I've been to blame. You're a dear girl--and I've abused your
kindness. I must go away--now."

"Then you--you do hate me," she accused with a quivering lip.

"No... no. I'm very fond of you."

"But you're going to leave me. It's because I've done wrong."

"Don't blame yourself, dear. It has been all my fault. I ought to have
known."

Her hands fell from him. The life seemed to die out of her whole figure.
"You do despise me."

Desire of her throbbed through him, but he spoke very quietly. "Listen,
dear. There is nobody I respect more... and none I like so much. I
can't tell you how... fond of you I am. But I must go now. You don't
understand."

She bit her lip to repress the sobs that would come and turned away to
hide her shame. Jeff caught her in his arms, kissed her passionately on
the lips, the eyes, the soft round throat.

"You do... like me," she purred happily.

Abruptly he pushed her from him. Where were they drifting? He must get
his anchors down before it was too late.

Somehow he broke away, leaving her there hurt and bewildered at his
apparent fickleness, at the stiffness with which he had beaten back the
sweet delight inviting them.

Jeff went to his rooms, his mind in a blind chaotic surge. He sat before
the table for hours, fighting grimly to persuade himself he need not
put away this joy that had come to him. Surely friendship was a good
thing... and love. A man ought not to turn his back on them.

It was long past midnight when he rose, took his father's sword from the
wall where it hung, and unsheathed it. A vision of an open fireplace in
a log house rose before him, his father in the foreground looking like a
picture of Stonewall Jackson. The kind brave eyes that were the soul of
honor gazed at him.

"You damned scoundrel! You damned scoundrel!" Jeff accused himself in a
low voice.

He knew his little friend was good and innocent, but he knew too she had
inherited a temperament that made her very innocence a anger to her.
Every instinct of chivalry called upon him to protect her from the
weakness she did not even guess. She had given him her kindness and her
friendship, the dear child! It was up to him to be worthy of them. If he
failed her he would be a creature forever lost to decency.