fectly frank with you about it all. I never
deceived you in word, tone, or look. I shall not begin now. You were my
ideal man in everything. You know," she paused, an amused smile upon her
lips and her lids lowered, "you know I thought Henry of Agincourt, Wolfe
Tone, and Robert Bruce must have been like you, and I was grateful to
the good God for letting me live in your time and country."

She ceased speaking, and her eyes rested upon the far-away sea with the
remembering tenderness a woman might give to an old plaything of
childhood before she continued:

"It was from Josef, of course, that I had most help, always belittling
this affair, always trying to make me forget in work. I was too tired at
night to grieve; I had to sleep. 'Women,' he said, 'coddle their griefs!
They revel in hopeless passion! They nurse it! Remember,' he said,
'there are two ways to forget: weeping and making swings.' Well," she
finished, "he taught me to make swings."

"And you have forgotten?" Francis asked, standing beside her, magnetic,
compelling, taken out of himself.

Memories were drawing them together. Remembered kisses, words, spoken
lips to lips, and that elemental sweet attraction of man for woman,
which should be ranked with the other great elemental things like fire,
water, earth, and air. Katrine rose also, and they stood looking into
each other's eyes.

"No," she answered, quite steadily, "I have not forgotten. I never shall
forget. I would give my life to feel that you are the man I once
believed you to be, the man I believe you could have been."

"Will you be frank with me, Katrine?" he demanded.

"Have I ever been anything else?" she questioned, in return.

"You have avoided me since you came."

"Yes, only I hope not noticeably."

"No, it was well done, but why?"

"Can you ask?"

"I do ask."

"I did not want ever to see you again nor to talk to you as we are
talking now."

"Answer me, Katrine!" he cried, bending toward her. "Answer me! Why did
you never want to see me again?"

There still was the look in her eyes of sweetest frankness as she
answered: "There were many reasons before I saw you that first night why
I should never wish to see you again. But after that there was only
one--one--one that filled my mind. I am afraid."

"Afraid!" he repeated, with the man's look of the chase in his eye,
"afraid of what, Katrine?"

She had moved by the fireplace, and with a hand on the chimney-shelf
turned her ey