They were left alone in the great drawing-room at Wyanoke, where hickory logs were merrily blazing in the cavernous fireplace, quite as if there had been no war to desolate the land, and no man and woman there with matters of grave import to discuss. Evelyn began the conference abruptly, as soon as Kilgariff entered and took a seat. “I have heard,” she began, “of what you have done—of your great generosity toward me. Of course I cannot permit that. You must cancel those papers at once—to-day. I cannot sleep while they exist.” “Who told you of the matter?” Kilgariff asked in reply. “Edmonia, with Dorothy’s permission and Mrs. Pegram’s.” “They should not have told you. I meant that you should not know till I am dead, unless—unless I should live longer than I expect, and you should fall into need when the war ends.” “But what right had you to treat me so? Do you think me a beggar, that I should accept a gift of money? Why did you do it?” The girl was standing now and confronting him, in manifest anger. Curiously enough, he did not seem to mind the anger. He had completely mastered himself, and knew perfectly what he was to say. He answered:— “I did this because I love you, Evelyn, and because I cannot provide for your future in any ordinary way.” Seeing that she was about to make some reply, he quickly forestalled it, saying:— “Please let me continue. Please do not speak yet. Let me explain.” The girl was still standing, but the look of anger in her face had given way to another expression—one more complex and less easily interpreted. There was some pleasure in it, and some apprehension, together with great astonishment. “Go on,” she said. “Only on even terms,” he answered, rising and standing in front of her. “What I have to say to you must be said with my eyes looking into yours. Now listen. By reason of a quite absurd convention, a young woman may not receive gifts of value, and especially of money, from a young man not her husband; yet she may freely take such gifts if they come to her by his will, after he is dead. “There are circumstances which render it impossible for me to leave my possessions to you by will. Any will that I might make to that effect would be contested and broken by those for whom I care so little that I would rather sink everything I have in the world in the Atlantic Ocean than let them inherit a dollar of it. “There are also reasons which forbid me to ask you to be my wife—at least until I shall have laid those reasons before you.” Evelyn was pale and trembling. Kilgariff saw that it was difficult for her to stand, so, taking her hand, he said:— “Let us sit; I have a long story to tell.” Whether purposely or not, he continued to hold her hand after they were seated. Whether consciously or not, she permitted him to do so, without protest. He went on:—