ears you will find
him stepping briskly on to admirable manhood; but it is because she has
never turned her back on him--she never faltered. See what Dale's sister
has done with patient perseverance! Surely, you would not get in a pout
and hold back the road simply because a few mountaineers are sometimes
obstinate little children!"

He felt the double reproach of this and began to smile, saying:

"I hadn't intended to tell you, but now you force me to it: the line is
twice as far along as when you were over here last!"

"Oh, you good-for-nothing--splendid!" she impulsively cried; but more
wistfully added: "Why wouldn't you have told me? Why do you try to keep
people from seeing when you do good things, and only show the--the not
so good?" He did not answer, and she spoke again with a new and delicate
caress in her voice: "You haven't deceived me utterly--there are times
when I've been tremendously proud of you."

"Jane," he said, and stopped. His eyes were looking deep into her own,
and while she gave him back look for look he seemed incapable of
continuing. But she turned away, somewhat confused, and slowly he
continued: "One time I discovered that in us all there is a secret
temple, with a very small but highly prized altar lighted by a tiny
taper flame, where we keep just our own little treasures--our wonderful
selves." She glanced up in some surprise, but this time he was staring
at the ground. "In some, its door is studiously, carefully locked; in
others, its paths of approach are overgrown with weeds and almost lost;
in others still, it is hard to find because it has been starved, or
hurt, or laughed at--but always when a certain current of thought or
sound sweeps by, that wonderful part of our souls upon this little altar
is set a-quivering. Old soldiers feel its pulsing at the booming of a
cannon; old women feel it at the laughter of a child; others know it is
there while beneath the spell of an orchestra, a breeze in the pines, a
bird's note, the fragrance of certain flowers, the caress of a voice.
You will forgive this unintentional preamble," he looked slowly up at
her, "when I say that your voice just now has been all of these things
to me--and more!"

"Oh, Brent," she cried, with a brave pretense at lightness, "if only you
weren't such a trifler! The dangerous thing about you is that you mean
this now--almost; enough, anyway, to give it a ring of sincerity. Were I
less sophisticated, I might go home b