"You see," she almost touched him now in her intensity, "I do not know anything about Mr. Gaston--really. About what he was, what his life was before he came here. I would not hurt him for anything God could give to me--and sometimes I have wondered if--if in that life that was; the life that _might_ come again to him, you know,--for for he is _so_ different from any one here--I wonder if what he has done for me, could hurt him? Could anything that is so heavenly good for me--hurt him?--tell me, tell me!" And now Drew dropped his eyes and sent a swift prayer to God for forgiveness. He had thought her without conscience, without soul. He felt himself in a dim valley, and he hardly dared to raise his eyes to her. "I am perfectly happy." The words quivered to him, and belied themselves. "And he says he--is--but would he be if he were back there--where he came from? In my getting of _my_ life, am I taking from _his_?" "Good God!" "You--you do not understand, either?" "Yes; I do, Joyce--I understand. I understand." "Am I hurting him?" "He must answer that, Joyce, no one else can. He must face that some day, and also whether he is hurting you or not. We cannot any of us choose a little sunny spot in life for ourselves and shut out the past and future by a high wall. The present faces both ways, Joyce, and light is let in from all sides. Light and blackest gloom, God help us! "What Gaston's other life was--he alone knows--he ought to tell you if he hopes to help you really. If he's the good man he seems to you, Joyce, he _will_ tell you, and give you a chance to play the game." Suddenly an inspiration came to Drew. "Tell him," he said slowly, "that I have friends coming here--friends who will probably build summer homes and introduce a new life. It's none of my business, perhaps, but you've come to me for help--and as God shows me, I must help you. Gaston has no right to injure your future by playing a game with you that you in no wise understand. It isn't fair--and he knows it, if he stops to think. Perhaps there was no way for him to help you that night, but the way he took. Perhaps he nobly did the only thing he could--I hope to God this is true; but there are other ways now, Joyce--he must know and give you a choice." "I--I--do not see--what you mean?" A frightened look spread over Joyce's face, and she shivered even in the full glow of the autumn sunlight. "I feel--you make me feel--as if I had been--as if I am--shut in a little room, with the doors and windows about to be opened. What is coming in, Mr. Drew? What am I going to see? You--you frighten me. I cannot--I will not believe--anything dreadful could happen to him or me--when I am so happy and safe." The excitement was wearing upon Drew frightfully. His ghastly face appealed suddenly to Joyce as she looked at him through her own growing doubt. "I'm going," she said, starting up; "I've made you worse. What can I do?" Drew smiled wanly and held out a trembling hand.