vent," she said, "but isn't that the way they speak on the stage?"

Crailey realized that his judgment of the silence bad been mistaken, and
yet it was with a thrill of delight that he recognized her clear reading
of him. He had been too florid again.

"Let us go." His voice was soft with restrained forgiveness. "You mocked
me once before.

"Mocked you?" she repeated, as they went on.

"Mocked me," he said, firmly. "Mocked me for seeming theatrical, and yet
you have learned that what I said was true; as you will again."

She mused upon this; then, as in whimsical indulgence to an importunate
child:

"Well, tell me what you mean when you say I saved your life."

"You came alone," he began, hastily, "to stand upon that burning roof--"

"Whence all but him had fled!" Her laughter rang out, interrupting
him. "My room was on the fourth floor at St. Mary's, and I didn't mind
climbing three flights this evening."

Crailey's good-nature was always perfect. "You mock me and you mock me!"
he cried, and made her laughter but part of a gay duet. "I know I have
gone too fast, have said things I should have waited to say; but, ah!
remember the small chance I have against the others who can see you
when they like. Don't flout me because I try to make the most of a rare,
stolen moment with you."

"Do!" she exclaimed, grave upon the instant. "Do make the most of it! I
have nothing but inexperience. Make the most by treating me seriously.
Won't you? I know you can, and I--I--" She faltered to a full stop. She
was earnest and quiet, and there had been something in her tone, too--as
very often there was--that showed how young she was. "Oh!" she began
again, turning to him impulsively, "I have thought about you since that
evening in the garden, and I have wished I could know you. I can't be
quite clear how it happened, but even those few minutes left a number
of strong impressions about you. And the strongest was that you were one
with whom I could talk of a great many things, if you would only be
real with me. I believe--though I'm not sure why I do--that it is very
difficult for you to be real; perhaps because you are so different at
different times that you aren't sure, yourself, which the real you is.
But the person that you are beginning to be for my benefit must be the
most trifling of all your selves, lighter and easier to put on than the
little mask you carried the other night. If there were nothing better
underneath the