Slowly she felt herself being drawn nearer to him. She struggled feebly, glad to be overborne by his superior strength. In another moment she was in his arms for the second time. Her head was bent down toward his waistcoat pocket. Holding her safe with one arm he put his hand under her chin, and turned her face upward. There were blushes on her cheeks, laughter and tears in her eyes. The interrupted kiss trembled upon her lips, and he--well, this time it was longer than the night before and more satisfying. As he kissed her her arms went around his neck again. "There was no other man," she whispered, "there never was any one but you. I did wrong, very wrong, but my father and you--that was my excuse. And I loved you all the time." When there was opportunity some moments later for articulate conversation, he endeavored to solve the mystery of her paternity, the understanding of which he had put by in the face of more pressing business--or pleasure. "Then your name isn't Fanny Glen?" "That's part of it." "What's the rest of it?" "Fanny Glen Vernon." "What! Is Admiral Vernon your father?" "He is." "How is that?" "When the war broke out he stayed with the North, was true to his flag, he said. I had seen little of him since my mother's death, when I was ten years old. I was a Southern woman. It seemed monstrous to me. I begged and implored him, but uselessly, and finally our relations were broken off. So I dropped the name of Vernon, and came here to work for our cause, the rest you know. But I could not let him be blown up unsuspecting, could I? If he were killed in action, it would be terrible enough, but this was a dreadful ending. I thought--I don't know what I thought. I love the South, but--" "I understand, my dearest," he said, in no condition to understand anything very clearly, and caring little for the moment for anything except that she loved him. "And you forgive me?" "Forgive you? With all my soul. This moment with you in my arms, with your arms around my neck, with your kisses upon my lips, with your words in my ear, with your love in my heart--this makes up for everything! I shall go to my death gladly." "To your death!" she exclaimed, drawing away from him in surprise and alarm. "Yes. Your confession to me makes no difference." "But I will tell the general." "I forbid it! Darling, you have committed an act of treason to the South, and while your love for your father--and for me--has explained it, you could not make such a plea as that before any court-martial composed of soldiers. You would only harm yourself, and you would not help me, and so I won't allow it." "But I must tell the general!" she persisted. "Dearest, no," said Sempland, smiling fondly at her. "We will anticipate what might have been. If all had gone well, you would have promised to obey me before the altar. Would you not?" She nodded with astonishing docility. "Well, then--" "And if I will not?"