Then, with a quick, eager step, he came between her and Star, who, with her white hands folded helplessly in her lap, her face like purest marble, felt as if earth was again slipping forever out of her reach, for her senses were reeling. With a stern, authoritative gesture he motioned Josephine away, and, reaching down, he took Star’s hands in his. “My darling,” he said, in low, thrilling tones, “has she been torturing you to death? There is not one word of truth in what she has told you. Come with me, and let me explain everything to you.” A mocking laugh, which, however, was full of misery, rang through the room. Lord Carrol looked back and saw Josephine, her face almost convulsed with pain and passion, passing out. “Don’t think that it is going to be all clear sailing even now, my proud, spirited lord, for I will spoil it all if I can.” “Come,” he murmured, gently turning again to Star, and paying no heed to those threatening words. He drew her unresisting hand within his arm, and led her through the conservatory out upon a covered porch at the rear. This porch was more like a room, for during the winter it was inclosed with glass windows, and, being heated with steam, formed a part of the hot-house. He placed the fair girl in a chair in a secluded corner, and then he knelt down before her. He took her hands again and drew them to his breast, where she could feel the great heart-throbs which made his strong frame quiver like a tree struck by the woodman’s ax. “My darling,” he said again, “I have seen Mr. Rosevelt, and he told me that you were here. I have been looking for you everywhere during the last fifteen minutes. Dearest, you will let me defend myself now, will you not? You will not turn away from me—you will not spoil both our lives by again driving me from you, believing me to be a ‘traitor and coward?’” Star shivered. Those words smote her with terrible pain; but her heart had been bounding with new hope since he had so sternly confronted Josephine Richards and proclaimed her assertion a lie. She could not comprehend it, for she had read the notice of their marriage with her own eyes. Yet she instinctively trusted him, and it was so sweet, after all the miserable past, to have him there, looking so fondly down into her eyes, and calling her his darling in those dear, familiar tones. “Archie—Archie!” she murmured, with a sob, “I know all about it—you were never a traitor or a coward. I know you never deceived me, and I alone am guilty of a great wrong to you.” With a low cry of joy he gathered her close in his arms, and laid her shining head upon his breast, calling her by every endearing name with which his heart was filled. “You know all about it, my love? Who has told you?” he asked, surprised.