"I am going to tell you something," she said, impressively. "Yes, at the risk of lowering myself in your estimation, unless you bid me pause." "How can I, when I do not know what you are going to say?" I demanded. "Then you wish to hear it?" I nodded, curious to learn what was in her mind. Looking with eyes that scintillated into mine she said, impressively, "Don, you cannot possibly want that kiss more than I want to give it!" "Well," I answered, delighted at her communication. "What prevents you? I promise, on my honor, not to scream--nor even to tell." "If I leave you to decide," said Miss May, with lips that whitened at the words, "what will you advise me?" A chilly breeze swept along the veranda. The figure of Statia Barton came across my vision, with her finger uplifted in warning. Out on the ocean I saw a wave that was transparent and beneath it a beautiful figure, cold and dead. I raised one of her hands to my lips and breathed a sigh upon it. I was quieted so easily! "Good night," I said, with emotion. "Good night," she replied. "You do not--no, you do not hate me?" I had turned away, but I faced her again. "I am--afraid--I love you," I said. "It was not in the compact, I did not mean to do it, but I'm afraid--I love you." She entered her door and I passed to my room. Pulling off my clothes at haphazard I threw them on a chair and donned my pajamas. The bed was hard. I turned every way to no purpose. Sleep would not come. At last I sat up, then opened my door noiselessly and stepped barefooted upon the veranda. Marjorie's light was still burning. The objects in her room showed with perfect distinctness through her screen door. I paused as if petrified at the sight before me. In her white nightrobes she was kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in her hands. It was beauty prostrate before its God, doubtless uttering a petition that he would protect her from evil. I paced up and down the veranda noiselessly for half an hour. When I paused again before Miss May's door, the light was extinguished and I could see nothing. "Marjorie," I whispered. "Yes, Don." "Forgive me. I will not offend you again." "Yes, Don. Would--would you like to come in and bathe my head? It aches a little." "I cannot, Marjorie. Shall I call Mrs. Eggert?" "Her hands are not like yours." It was a severe struggle, but I told her I must not come in-that if she would think a minute she would see I must not. She said "Very well," and we exchanged good-nights. I went to my couch very proud of the victory I had won over myself--prouder than it seems to me now I should have been. We must both have slept some, for I was aroused by hearing Laps barking, and Marjorie had not made her appearance when the hands of my watch pointed to half past five. She told me through the partition that she did not feel like bathing that morning, and I decided to omit the bath myself.