Katharine’s face fell. “There’s a reservation, dear--I knew there would be,” she said, with a sigh. “No,” answered Ralston. “Only I didn’t want to say more than just what I meant. I’ve been angry myself--I was angry at dinner--perhaps I was angry still when I sat down here. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to be. It’s hard to say exactly what I do mean. I love you--just the same as ever. Only we’ve both been very angry and shall never forget that we have been, though we may wonder some day why we were. Do you understand? It’s not very clear, but I’m not good at talking.” “Yes.” Katharine’s face grew brighter again. “Yes,” she repeated, a moment later; “it’s what I feel--only I wish that you might not feel it, because it’s all my fault--all of it. And yet--oh, Jack! It seems to me that I never loved you as I do now--somehow, you seem dearer to me since I’ve hurt you, and you’ve forgiven me--but I wasn’t to say that!” “No, dear--don’t talk of forgiveness. Tell me you love me--I’d rather hear it.” “So would I--from you, Jack!” Some one had sat down at the piano. The keyboard was away from them, so that they could not see who it was, but as Katharine spoke a chord was struck, then two or three more followed, and the first bars of a waltz rang through the room. It was the same which the orchestra had been playing on the previous evening, just when Katharine had left the Assembly rooms with Hester Crowdie. “They were playing that last night,” she said, leaning toward him once more in the shadow of the piano. “I was so unhappy--last night--” No one was looking at them in their corner. John Ralston caught her hand in his, pressed it almost sharply, and then held it a moment. “I love you with all my heart,” he said. The deep grey eyes melted as they met his, and the beautiful mouth quivered. “I want to kiss you, dear,” said Katharine. “Then I shall know. Do you think anybody will see?” * * * * * That is the story of those five days, from Monday afternoon to Friday evening, in reality little more than four times twenty-four hours. It has been a long story, and if it has not been well told, the fault lies with him who has told it, and may or may not be pardoned, according to the kindness of those whose patience has brought them thus far. And if there be any whose patience will carry them further, they shall be satisfied before long, unless the writer be meanwhile gathered among those who tell no tales.