ced at him, and
she had not yet uttered a word when they were seated. It lay with
him, entirely, so far.

"What a lazy hound I have been," he said, smiling; "I have no
excuses to save my hide--no dogs ever have. Are you well, Ailsa?"

She made the effort: "Yes, perfectly. I fear--" Her eyes rested on
his marred and haggard face; she said no more because she could not.

He made, leisurely, all proper and formal inquiries concerning the
Craigs and those he had met there, mentioned pleasantly his changed
fortunes; spoke of impending and passing events, of the war, of the
movement of troops, of the chances for a battle, which the papers
declared was imminent.

Old Jonas shuffled in with the Madeira and a decanter of brandy, it
being now nearly eight o'clock.

Later, while Berkley was still carelessly bearing the burden of
conversation, the clock struck nine times; and in another
incredibly brief interval, it struck ten.

He started to rise, and encountered her swiftly lifted eyes. And a
flush grew and deepened on his face, and he resumed his place in
silence. When again he was seated she drew, unconsciously, a long,
deep breath, and inclined her head to listen. But Berkley had no
more to say to her--and much that he must not say to her. And she
waited a long while, eyes bent steadily on the velvet carpet at her
feet.

The silence endured too long; she knew it, but could not yet break
it, or the spell which cradled her tired heart, or the blessed
surcease from the weariness of waiting.

Yet the silence was lasting too long, and must be broken quickly.

She looked up, startled, as he rose to take his leave. It was the
only way, now, and she knew it. And, oh, the time had sped too
fast for her, and her heart failed her for all the things that
remained unsaid--all the kindness she had meant to give him, all
the counsel, the courage, the deep sympathy, the deeper friendship.

But her hand lay limply, coldly in his; her lips were mute,
tremulously curving; her eyes asked nothing more.

"Good night, Ailsa."

"Good night."

There was colour, still, in his marred young face, grace, still, in
his body, in the slightly lowered head as he looked down at her.

"I must not come again, Ailsa."

Then her pulses died. "Why?"

"Because--I am afraid to love you."

It did not seem that she even breathed, so deathly still she stood.

"Is that---your reason?"

"Yes. I have no right to love you."

She could