d I not love him as I have it in me to love! Why did he look so
exasperatingly humble? I was weak, oh, so pitifully weak! I wanted a man
who would be masterful and strong, who would help me over the rough spots
of life--one who had done hard grinding in the mill of fate--one who had
suffered, who had understood. No; I could never marry Harold Beecham.

"Well, Syb, little chum, what do you say?"

"Say!"--and the words fell from me bitterly--"I say, leave me; go and
marry the sort of woman you ought to marry. The sort that all men like. A
good conventional woman, who will do the things she should at the proper
time. Leave me alone."

He was painfully agitated. A look of pain crossed his face.

"Don't say that, Syb, because I was a beastly cad once: I've had all that
knocked out of me."

"I am the cad," I replied. "What I said was nasty and unwomanly, and I
wish I had left it unsaid. I am not good enough to be your wife, Hal, or
that of any man. Oh, Hal, I have never deceived you! There are scores of
good noble women in the world who would wed you for the asking--marry one
of them."

"But, Syb, I want you. You are the best and truest girl in the world."

"Och! Sure, the blarney-stone is getting a good rub now," I said
playfully.

Annoyance and amusement struggled for mastery in his expression as he
replied:

"You're the queerest girl in the world. One minute you snub a person, the
next you are the jolliest girl going, and then you get as grave and
earnest as a fellow's mother would be."

"Yes, I am queer. If you had any sense, you'd have nothing to do with me.
I'm more queer, too. I am given to something which a man never pardons in
a woman. You will draw away as though I were a snake when you hear."

"What is it?"

"I am given to writing stories, and literary people predict I will yet be
an authoress."

He laughed--his soft, rich laugh.

"That's just into my hand. I'd rather work all day than write the
shortest letter; so if you will give me a hand occasionally, you can
write as many yarns as you like. I'll give you a study, and send for a
truck-load of writing-gear at once, if you like. Is that the only horror
you had to tell me?"

I bowed my head.

"Well, I can have you now," he said gently, folding me softly in his arms
with such tender reverence that I cried out in pain, "Oh, Hal, don't,
don't!" and struggled free. I was ashamed, knowing I was not worthy of
this.

He flushed a dusky red.

"Am