She recovered from the stupor of surprise into which his suggestion had plunged her. "Are you mad? Do you think that I'd let you sacrifice yourself? What am I to you that you should do this for me?" "The woman I love," he said quietly. "I have loved you from the first day that I saw you." It was at this moment that I returned and halted at the door, an unwilling witness to the rest, only half understanding, not daring to move. I saw the splendid color mount and glorify her beauty. I saw her hands go out to him half in appeal, half in rejection. "Oh, it's madness!" she cried. "It's your life you're offering me." "What else should I offer you--you who have given life its real meaning for me?" He caught her hands in his and held them. He caught her eyes in his and held them. Then he began speaking, evenly, soothingly, persuasively, binding her to his will. "What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few more weeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr. Smith. You know. You understand. Didn't you understand?" "Yes," she breathed. "Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No more waiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It's my chance, if only you'll make it worth while. Will you?" he pleaded. "Oh, the wonder of it!" she whispered, gazing on him with parted lips. But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to be his advantage. "Here," he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up the bills from the valise. "Here's safety. Here's life. For you and your sister, both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here's Providence for you! Quick! Take it." "What is it?" she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust the money into her hands. "Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn't matter. It's life for both of you. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go." She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed. "Do you think I would leave you _now_?" she cried in a voice of thrilled music. "Even if they weren't sure to trace me, as they would be." This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed with indifference. "There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the ground." "Confession? To what?" "To the murder of Ely Crouch." Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. But they were too engrossed to hear. "You would do even that? But the penalty--the shame--" "What do they matter to a dying man?" he retorted impatiently. She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but now she came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So they stood face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as I sit here speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of that which had passed silently between them. "Do you love me?" "Before God I do," he answered.