u like my looks or--or like _me_, as for
that matter; but when you get worked up, the sweetest things in heaven
or earth slip out when you don't know it."

But grimly unpleasant thoughts had fastened themselves on Henley's
bewildered brain, and he could only stare at her in sheer agony of
suspense.

"Then you may--you _may_ marry him, after all!" he said, under his
breath. "You haven't fully decided yet. You may conclude that you and
him--" His voice broke, and, like a dumb animal brought to bay, he stood
staring at her, his mouth open, his lower lip quivering.

A great change came over her. She seemed to hesitate an instant, and
then she took his inert hand in both of hers, drew it up and held it
fondly against her throbbing breast. "Love--the right sort, Alfred--is
the sweetest, holiest thing in all the world. It is the first breath of
real heaven that men and women feel here on earth. When two people love
each other--like we--like they ought to love one another, they both know
it as plain as we know that sky full of stars is over us right now. They
feel it in the way their pulse beats when their hands meet; they hear it
in their voices when they speak; they see it in each other's eyes; they
love to be together, and feel like something has gone wrong when they
ain't. That's real love, Alfred, and if the man is tied up in a way God
never meant him to be, and if the woman is loaded down with burdens till
her fresh young shoulders are bent and ache night and day, still the
thought of their love may be always in their hearts and make life seem
one continual day of sunshine and music."

"Oh, Dixie, you mean--" His voice broke, and he could only stare at her
as if waking from a deep dream of perplexity into complete
understanding.

She nodded, kissed his hand reverently and released it. They walked on
without a word between them till they reached the point where their
ways parted. He would have detained her, but she said:

"No, not now, Alfred. I see somebody on your porch. I think it is your
wife. We must be careful to do no wrong in the sight of the world. You
owe that poor woman all the happiness you can give her. To think of what
we might want would be downright selfishness. We know what we know, and
that is sweet enough. Don't think of me marrying anybody. I've got Joe
and my duties, and--and you know what else. I shall never complain
again--never! Good-bye."

CHAPTER XXIX

Across the table at the eve