oice broke--"it was so hard before--so hard before, and now--"

She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands.

"It is not for an hour!"--his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is
not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for--always--always! I am not
going back. I have come for always--to be with you always now,
Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look
up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my
neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see
or heed."

She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour
came into her face--and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it
had been before.

"You are not going back"--she scarcely breathed the words. Then,
almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your--"

"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant
when I told you Jean Laparde was dead."

"Mine! You would do this--for me--for me--Jean?"--it was as though she
were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly
toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way
took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes
while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave,
and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little
quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell
away--and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean--it can never
be. You must go back."

"Never be!" Jean echoed--but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in
his voice. "It _must_ be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go
back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen,
Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of
myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and
believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I
saw you here to-night--see, you were standing down there with your arms
stretched out! But how can I tell you--the joy, the grief, the
_miserable_ I had been? But it was only you then--you, Marie-Louise,
my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life
should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was
nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a
world of phantom things--ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but
you mus