ay, until now. You are not sorry that
I have come to protect you. Tell me that you are not." Harvey's words
are spoken earnestly; he has kept the love of all the months of
separation pent up in his heart. Now he is in the presence of the one
woman in all the world, he adores. Her imperfections are not unknown to
him; he has felt the sting of her long silence, broken only by her
telegram sent at the hour of his triumph in Chicago; yet for all this be
feels his heart throb as quickly as in the old days.

"O, Harvey, can you forgive me for my heartlessness?" she asks in a
faint whisper.

"I could not decide against my father that horrid day, when you and he
parted enemies. And after you had departed I was urged by all my family
and friends to put you out of my thoughts; I was told that you had sworn
to be an enemy to all men and women of wealth; that if I were to
communicate with you it would necessitate my disowning all my home ties.
I am only a woman--a woman born to wealth. How could I foretell that you
are not an enemy to the rich, but a true friend of humanity?"

"Then you know me by my true character and not as I am depicted by the
Plutocrats?" Trueman asks, joyfully.

He has heard the word "Harvey," and feels the exultation of the lover
who hears his name pronounced in endearing tones by the woman he loves.

"Yes, I know you as you really are and I have felt the power of your
words; it was not to the mob alone that you spoke. I stood in the shadow
of my father's palace and heard your words. Harvey, you made me feel a
deep pang of sympathy for my fellowmen and women."

The events of the day have been of such a momentous nature that it is
not strange that Ethel should collapse. She has sustained the shock of
her father's murder; the visitation of the citizens, bent on vengeance;
then the unexpected appearance of Harvey Trueman.

She clings to her companion's arm, struggling to control her emotions.
When she ceases to speak a great sob escapes her; then she begins to cry
hysterically.

Trueman cannot bear to hear her heartbreaking sobs. With the impulse of
a father soothing a child he lifts her from the ground, and holding her
in his strong embrace, strides on at the head of the cortege.

When the town is reached the perfect order of the procession is
preserved. It winds through unfrequented streets to the bridge; crossing
the river it continues until checked by the closed gates of the
cemetery.

At the sig