“I tell you again”—said Falloden, speaking with a strong simplicity and sincerity that was all the time undoing the impression he honestly desired to make—“It’s a big risk for you—a temperament like mine—and you ought to think it over seriously. And then”—he paused abruptly in front of her, his hands in his pockets—“why should you—you’re so young!—start life with any burden on you? Why should you? It’s preposterous! I must look after Otto all his life.” “So must I!” said Connie quickly. “That’s the same for both of us.” “And then—you may forget it—but I can’t. I repeat—I’m a pauper. I’ve lost Flood. I’ve lost everything that I could once have given you. I’ve got about four thousand pounds left—just enough to start me at the bar—when I’ve paid for the Orpheus. And I can’t take a farthing from my mother or the other children. I should be just living upon you. How do I know that I shall get on at the bar?” Connie smiled; but her lips trembled. “Do think it over,” he implored; and he walked away from her again, as though to leave her free. There was a silence. He turned anxiously to look at her. “I seem”—said Connie, in a low voice that shook—“to have kissed somebody—for nothing.” That was the last stroke. He came back to her, and knelt beside her, murmuring inarticulate things. With a sigh of relief, Connie subsided upon his shoulder, conscious through all her emotion of the dear strangeness of the man’s coat against her cheek. But presently, she drew herself away, and looked him in the eyes, while her own swam. “I love you”—she said deliberately—“because—well, first because I love you!—that’s the only good reason, isn’t it; and then, because you’re so sorry. And I’m sorry too. We’ve both got to make up—we’re going to make up all we can.” Her sweet face darkened. “Oh, Douglas, it’ll take the two of us—and even then we can’t do it! But we’ll help each other.” And stooping she kissed him gently, lingeringly, on the brow. It was a kiss of consecration. A few minutes more, and then, with the Eighth Prelude swaying and dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the music-room. The door was open, and they saw the persons inside. Otto and Sorell were walking up and down smoking cigarettes. The boy was radiant, transformed. All look of weakness had disappeared; he held himself erect; his shock of red-gold hair blazed in the firelight, and his eyes laughed, as he listened silently, playing with his cigarette. Sorell evidently was thinking only of him; but he too wore a look of quiet pleasure. Only Mrs. Mulholland sat watchful, her face turned towards the open door. It wore an expression which was partly excitement, partly doubt. Her snow-white hair above her very black eyes, and her frowning, intent look, gave her the air of an old Sibyl watching at the cave’s mouth.