She held out her hands towards me, and in an instant was in my arms. First she hid her face, but then drew herself back as far as the circle of my arm allowed. Her dark eyes met mine full and direct in a confession that shamed me but shamed her no more; her shame was swallowed in the sweet pride of surrender. "Always," said she, "always; from the first through all; always, always." It seemed that though she could not speak that word enough. In truth I could scarcely believe it; save when I looked in her eyes, I could not believe it. "But I wouldn't tell you," she said. "I swore you should never know. Simon, do you remember how you left me?" It seemed that I must play penitent now. "I was too young to know----" I began. "I was younger and not too young," she cried. "And all through those days at Dover I didn't know. And when we were together I didn't know. Ah, Simon, when I flung your guinea in the sea, you must have known!" "On my faith, no," I laughed. "I didn't see the love in that, sweetheart." "I'm glad there was no woman there to tell you what it meant," said Barbara. "And even at Canterbury I didn't know. Simon, what brought you to my door that night?" I answered her plainly, more plainly than I could at any other time, more plainly, it may be, than even then I should: "She bade me follow her, and I followed her so far." "You followed her?" "Ay. But I heard your voice through the door, and stopped." "You stopped for my voice; what did I say?" "You sung how a lover had forsaken his love. And I heard and stayed." "Ah, why didn't you tell me then?" "I was afraid, sweetheart." "Of what? Of what?" "Why, of you. You had been so cruel." Barbara's head, still strained far as could be from mine, now drew nearer by an ace, and then she launched at me the charge of most enormity, the indictment that justified all my punishment. "You had kissed her before my eyes, here, sir, where we are now, in my own Manor Park," said Barbara. I took my arms from about her, and fell humbly on my knee. "May I kiss so much as your hand?" said I in utter abasement. She put it suddenly, eagerly, hurriedly to my lips. "Why did she write to me?" she whispered. "Nay, love, I don't know." "But I know. Simon, she loves you." "It would afford no reason if she did. And I think----" "It would and she does. Simon, of course she does." "I think rather that she was sorry for----" "Not for me!" cried Barbara with great vehemence. "I will not have her sorry for me!" "For you!" I exclaimed in ridicule. (It does not matter what I had been about to say before.) "For you! How should she? She wouldn't dare!" "No," said Barbara. One syllable can hold a world of meaning. "A thousand times, no!" cried I.