eat effort, and went into the room.

Sylvia was sitting on a couch, very pale, but smiling placidly. As
Kathleen entered, tears came into her eyes, and she asked in a penitent
voice:

"Can you ever forgive me? I can't forgive myself for striking you. But
no one has ever attempted to prevent me from having my own way, and I
was resolved to go on. I have been sufficiently punished."

"Never mind about it now," said Kathleen. "You did not realise the
risk."

"I shall never forget it! Let me look at your hand. Did I do that? Oh,
how cruel of me to strike you! You won't tell Denis Quirk that I did
it?"

Kathleen, who had begun to feel her anger slowly evaporating, became
suddenly as indignant towards Sylvia as she had been prior to the
latter's apology. It was evident to her that it was not because of the
injury Sylvia had done her, but lest she should complain to Denis Quirk,
that Sylvia was asking forgiveness.

"I have no intention of telling Denis Quirk," she answered, coldly.

"Now, don't be angry, Kathleen--please. I am a spoiled girl, I know.
Everybody has conspired to spoil me. I am impulsive and passionate, but
no one has checked me. Let that be my excuse."

She put her arm around Kathleen and drew her down on the couch beside
her.

"Kiss me," she said, "and say you forgive me. There, that's a dear! Now
tell me exactly what happened. It is a blank to me."

Kathleen told her exactly what had taken place, Sylvia listening with
intense interest.

"Isn't he brave?" she asked. "And he took me in his arms, and never
thought of you! What if your horse had gone over the bridge after mine?"

"Denis Quirk knows that I can ride 'Douglas' anywhere," Kathleen
answered.

"I suppose so," said Sylvia; "but he might have made sure of the fact. I
think he is splendid. All those other men stood gaping on the bank, and
he was the only one to act. It is a moment like that that proves a man.
Scores of admirers have told me what they would do for me, but only one
man has done--only one," she added, dreamily.

That evening Kathleen was restless; the day's adventure had disturbed
her more than she was aware of. After tea, having made Mrs. Quirk
comfortable, she slipped on a thin lace shawl and went quietly into the
garden. Walking about in the evening stillness, her accustomed composure
returned to her. Presently she slipped into a summer-house, and sat down
to think placidly.

As she sat there, she heard voices, and, to