d her reply was a soft whisper.

"Thank Heaven! But I want to hear you say--oh, my darling, I want the
assurance that I shall be dear to you, that it is not all because----"

"I should stay for Uncle Win's sake. I think Miss Recompense finds a
great many sources of happiness in a single life. But if I promised you,
it would be because--because--I loved you."

"Then promise me," he cried enraptured. "I love you dearly, if I haven't
been much of a lover. I have said to myself that I was waiting for
Hawthorne's five years to end, or to do something worthy of you. And
now, Doris, I know what fighting means, and I would fight to the death
for you. I am afraid I shall be selfish and exigent to the last degree."

He felt the delicate revelation in the warmth of her cheek, the tremble
of the soft hands, the relaxation of her whole body. And a kind of
solemn exultation filled his soul. Except the youthful episode with
Alice Royall, he had never sincerely cared for any woman, and he was
very glad he could give Doris the first offering of a man's love as he
understood it now.

And then for a long while neither spoke, except in kisses--love's own
language. Every moment the mystery seemed to grow upon Doris, to unfold
as well, to pass the line of girlhood, to accept the crown of a woman's
life. It had been very simply sweet. Some other woman might have made a
rather tragic episode of her two lovers. Doris pitied them sincerely,
but they both had the deepest sympathy from Cary Adams.

"Let us go to him," Cary exclaimed presently, rising, with his arm still
about her.

There were two wax candles burning in their sconces that had been made
over forty years ago in Paul Revere's foundry. By the softened light
Cary glanced at the flushed face, downcast eyes and dewy, tremulous
lips. Half the sweet story was still untold, but there would be years
and years. Oh, Heaven grant they might have them together! And at this
instant he was filled with a profound sympathy for his father's loss and
lonely life.

They walked slowly through the hall and paused a moment in the doorway.
Winthrop Adams was leaning his head on his hand, and the lamp a little
at the side threw up his thin, finely cut features, as if they had been
done in marble, and he was almost as pale. The exultation went out of
the soul of the young lover, and a rush of tenderness such as he had
never experienced before swept through him.

"Father," he said softly, touching hi