strange mingling with magic?

She could never ask. She could never know. It would hover and whisper
always, the fear that had yet its beauty. It humbled her and it lifted
Franklin. He was more than she had believed. She had believed him all
hers, to take; but it was he who had given himself to her, and there
was an inmost shrine--ah, was there not?--that was not his to give. And
pity, deep pity, and sadness immeasurable for a loss not hers alone, was
in her as she sobbed: 'Ah, it is only because you are sorry for me. I
have killed all the rest. You are not in love with me any
longer--poor--poor Franklin--and everything is spoiled.'

But Franklin could show her that he had seen the fear, and yet that life
was not spoiled by shrines in each heart from which the other was shut
out. It was difficult to know how to say it; difficult to tell her that
some truth she saw and yet that there was more truth for them
both--plenty of truth, as he would have said, for them both to live on.
And though it took him a little while to find the words, he did find
them at last, completely, for her and for himself, saying gently, while
he held her, 'No, it isn't, dear. It's not spoiled. It's not the
same--for either of us--is it?--but it isn't spoiled. We've taken
nothing from each other; some things weren't ours, that's all. And even
if you don't much want to marry me, you must please have me, now;
because I want to marry you. I want to live for you so much that by
degrees, I feel sure of it, you'll want to live for me, too. We must
live for each other; we've got each other. Isn't that enough, Althea?'

'Is it--_is_ it enough?' she sobbed.

'I guess it is,' said Franklin.

His voice was sane and sweet, even if it was sad. It seemed the voice of
life. Althea closed her eyes and let it fold her round. Only with
Franklin could she find consolation in her defeat, or strength to live
without the happiness that had failed her. Only Franklin could console
her for having to take Franklin. Was that really all that it came to?
No, she felt it growing, as they sat in silence, her sobs quieting, her
head on his shoulder; it came to more. But she saw nothing clearly after
the hateful, soulless seeing. The only clear thing was that it was good
to be with Franklin.

THE END.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.

ESTABLISHED 1798
[Illustration:]
T. NELSON AND SONS
PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS

* * * * *

THE NELSON