gone out
of her eyes and voice; "but I have confessed. You will never look at me
again, but you have taken the weight off my life that was crushing it."

I could only answer her in one way. I crossed the distance she had set
between us, and took her in my arms and kissed her.

"I shall be your loving friend for ever," I said, while she pushed me
away and cried out that I must not touch her, lest she should have the
infection about her.

"Although I never touched him, Bawn, I never touched him," she kept on
assuring me. "_He_ would not permit it. Bawn, if he is to die, don't you
think God will forgive him his sins because of that great act of
charity? The poor creature was horrible, horrible. I ran away from him
when the lamps were turned on his face. But Richard Dawson was not
afraid."

"It was splendid of him," I said. "I am sure God has forgiven him."

"And I need not tell my husband? I have felt ever since that I must
confess to him. If I did he might forgive me, but it would never be the
same again. Now I have slaked my thirst for confession by telling you.
Bawn, do you think I must tell him?"

I felt as though I answered her with a voice and an authority not my
own.

"You must never tell him," I said. "You owe it to him not to destroy his
happiness. If you have ever the need for confession again, come to me."

"I will, Bawn dear, and God bless you," she said, her face lighting.
"You have helped me so much. Perhaps, after all, Robin may not be
sickening for the small-pox. What a thing that would be!"

"If he is he will still be in the hands of God," I said.

For many days after that I waited for news of Richard Dawson so eagerly
that it seemed to break in upon my expectation.

One thing I knew at least, and that was that love was nursing him. The
information came to me through Maureen, in a characteristic manner. Even
the happiness of these days did not make Maureen gentle.

"You've heard about Nora Brady, Miss Bawn?" she said.

"No?"

My heart sank, apprehending some new calamity; while Maureen went on in
bitter tones--

"I never thought well of her and now I'm proved right. The minute she
heard that Master Richard was took with the small-pox she ran off to him
like a mad thing. And there she is ever since. Not a womankind in the
house but herself. Her mother was a decent woman; I'm glad she didn't
live to see it."

"And if she did, Maureen," I said sternly, "she might be proud of her
girl. It