“You were there on your bed by the window,” he continued, “and every one thought you would never rise from it. So what was the good of telling you just the weary prose of life? What place could it have in the poetry of yours? And I was selfish, Stella darling; I used to come to you for something sweet and pure and lovely that the wide wide world could n't give me. And I got it, and it sent me away strong for the battle; and I 've had to fight, dear--to fight hard sometimes. And when you got well and came out into the world, I felt it was necessary to tell you something more about myself--that there never had been a palace; that I was just a poor, hard-working journalist; that I had adopted a little girl called Unity, whose life had not been of the happiest; that she and an old aunt of mine kept house for me: but our old life went on so smoothly, and I still got the help and courage and faith I needed from you, that I put off telling you from week to week. That's the explanation, darling. And now I'm glad, more than glad, you came to-day. Don't you believe me?” “Yes, Belovedest,” she sighed. “I believe you.” He went on, finding in her presence his old power of artistic expression. In the overwhelming desire to bring back the laughter to those wonderful eyes that met his he forgot prudence, forgot the fact that he was making a passionate appeal. He was pleading her cause with happiness, not his own. It was the purest in the love of the man that spoke. Again he wound up by claiming her faith. And again, this time with soft, melting eyes, she said, “Yes, Belovedest, I believe you.” What else could she say, poor child? Here was her hero among men belittling himself just for her glorification. Here was his strong, beloved face wrought into an intensity of pleading. Here he was using tones of his deep voice that made every chord in her vibrate. Cloud-compeller, he cleared her overcast horizon to radiance. Is there a woman breathing, be she never so cynical, who, in the sunshine of her heart, does not believe in the sun? She laughed and drew his hands to her face. “So you think I 've been making mountains out of molehills?” “Out of molecules,” said he. She laughed one of her adorable, childish little laughs. But the woman whispered, “Forgive me, Belovedest.” Time has invented but one proof of forgiveness in such a case, and eternity will not find a substitute. Obeying the everlasting law, he proved his forgiveness; but he mastered himself sufficiently to draw back the moment their lips had touched. He rose to his feet. “Now we 're quite happy, are n't we?” A little murmur signified assent. Then she sat up, and swung her legs daintily over the side of the bed, and, flushed, happy, and adorably dishevelled, looked at him. [Illustration: 0260] “And now,” she cried gaily, “if you 'll let me put on my frock, I 'll come with you and auntie to see the pictures.” He remonstrated. She was tired out; she must rest. But she stood up and faced him.