was very sure of that. If she should tell him now--if she
should let him know--he would turn to her in his grief. He would be
clay in her hands. And afterwards he would despise her for having
taken advantage of his hour of weakness. She had waited all these
years, and still she must wait.

Dave's eyes were upon her form, silhouetted against the window. It
occurred to him that in form Edith was very much like Irene. He
recalled that in those dead past days when they used to ride together
Edith had reminded him of Irene. When she stood silent so long he
spoke again.

"I'm afraid I haven't played a very heroic part," he said, somewhat
shamefacedly. "I should have buried my secret in my heart; buried it
even from you; perhaps most of all from you. I should have faced the
world with a smile, as one who rises above the slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune. People do that kind of thing in books; perhaps
some do in real life. I suppose you can't tell from the outside what
may be carried within--even by your closest friend. But--you can
advise me, Edith. I will value whatever you say."

She trembled until she thought he must see her, and she feared to trust
her voice, but she could delay a reply no longer.

"You are right, Dave," she said at length. "You never can tell what
other people are carrying; perhaps, even, as you say, your closest
friends. The first thing is to get rid of the idea that your
experience is unique; that your lot is harder than that of other
people. It may be different, but it is not harder. When you get that
point of view you will be able to pass sane judgments.

"'And when you can pass sane judgment you may see that the evidence is
not, even at the worst, very conclusive. Why should you take Conward's
word in such a matter as this?"

"I didn't take Conward's word. That's why I didn't kill him at once.
It wasn't his word--it was the insult--that cut. But she tried to save
him. She threw herself upon me. She would have taken the bullet
herself rather than let it find him. That was what--that was what----"

"I know, Dave." She had to hold herself in check lest the tenderness
that welled within her, and would shape words of endearing sympathy in
her mind, should find utterance in speech. "I know, Dave," she said.
"The next thing then is to make sure in your own mind whether you ever
really loved Irene Hardy."

He sprang to his feet. "Loved Irene!" he exclaimed, and she wa