As she finally stepped behind a group of palms which concealed the door, she sprang lightly into the dark passage and flung herself headlong into the arms of Moultrie La Grange, who had come in that way to intercept her flight. He was not slow to take advantage of the very opportunity he had come to seek, and, after one brief struggle, so slight that it was like the fluttering of a bird, she hid her face in his shoulder, with a little sob in which relief and joy and love were mingled. He said nothing, only held her close and kissed her hair, until her arms stole upward and curled around his neck, and she whispered: "Moultrie, dear, dear Moultrie, will you forgive me for what I said to you that day?" "I have nothing to forgive, dear heart. You only said it because you loved me." Tears filled her eyes, and she drew closer to him, whispering: "I knew that first night in New York at the opera--that this hour would come--and just now, while Cynthia was singing, I knew that--you would understand--everything!" "I would not have dared to speak to you again, dearest," he answered, "if I had not emptied my soul of self and got rid of that which separated us. But--I have been working since you showed me where I stood with you, and I, too, under the spell of that child’s voice, have come to the point where I can say that, if you think I am capable of it,--and worthy to be the successor of such a man as your idolized father,--I would be proud to complete his work on Abraham Lincoln, and, with your consent, we will call it ’The Debt of the South to Lincoln.’" For reply, Carolina lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. She could make no reply to such a surrender as that, but in that hour she lifted her hero to a pinnacle, whence he never was dislodged. THE END.