She lay upon his breast; his arms were around her, his lips pressed passionately to hers. In the ecstacy of that moment conscience was forgotten, the past was obliterated; nothing but the fire and energy of love remained. And then--quite suddenly--came a revulsion of feeling in the mind of the man whose guilt had, after all, not left him utterly without remorse. To Cynthia's terror and dismay, he sank upon his knees before her, and, with his arms clasped round her waist, and his face pressed close to her slight form, burst into a passion, an agony of sobs. She did not know what to do or say! she could but entreat him to be calm, repeating that she loved him--that she would love him to the last day of her life. It was of no use, the agony would have its way. He did not try to explain his singular conduct. When he rose at last, he kissed her on the forehead, and, murmuring, somewhat inarticulately, that he would see her on the morrow, he left the room. She heard the street door close, and knew, with a strange mixture of fear and joy, that he had gone, and that he loved her. In the consciousness of this latter fact she had no fear of the morrow. He might perhaps have kept his lips from an avowal of love, which was afterwards bitter to him as death if he had known that at St. Elizabeth's Cynthia West had once been known as the convict's daughter, Jane Wood. CHAPTER XXVII. "Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next morning--"this won't do! I was to blame; I made a fool of myself last night." "What--in saying that you loved me?" she inquired. "Yes--in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not intend to say it." "Does that matter?" she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand, and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly. "I did it against my conscience." "Because of that other girl?" He considered a moment and then said "Yes." But he was not prepared for the steadily penetrating gaze which she immediately turned upon him. "I don't quite believe that," she said slowly. "You doubt my word?" "Yes," said Cynthia, in a dry matter-of-fact way; "I doubt everybody's word. Nobody tells the whole truth in this agreeable world. You forget that I am not a baby--that I have knocked about a good deal and seen the seamy side of life. Perhaps you would like me better if I had not? You would like me to have lived in the country all my life, and to be gentle and innocent and dull?" "I could not like you better than as you are," he said, passing one arm round her. "That's right. You do love me?" "Yes, Cynthia." "That is not a very warm assurance. Do you feel so coldly towards me this morning?" "My dearest--no!"