Connie was in her aunt’s house seeing that it was made ready for the count and countess, who were to arrive in the _Etruria_. Never since the Interlaken days had her heart ached as it was aching now, with its load of pain and horror. Kenneth was lost forever, and the man she had trusted was his cousin and the pretended husband of Kitty. She always shuddered when she thought of bright, sunny-faced Kitty and the baby. They must never know and I must never see them again, or Kenneth, she thought. “He is home by this time,” she said to herself on the morning after Kenneth’s meeting with Harry. “He has read my note. I wonder what he thinks and how he will meet his cousin.” Then there came over her a great longing to see him once more, to hear his voice, to know what he thought, and if there were any way out of it. This idea, that Kenneth might in some way “get her out of it,” had never occurred to her until that moment when the maid entered bringing her a card. “Kenneth!” she almost screamed, but smothered the sound. “Where is he? Show him up,” she said, and in a moment she was folded in Kenneth’s arms. Forgetful of everything except that he was there, she had gone forward to meet him with a glad cry, and had not resisted when he held her closely to him and, kissing her passionately, said: “My Connie, my own at last! There is nothing between us, and I have come to tell you.” He could not wait, after his interview with Hal, but had taken the first train for New York, reaching the city too late to see Connie that night. But at the earliest possible hour in the morning he had found her, and was kissing her again and again, and telling her it was all right, and she lay passive in his arms, and did not ask for an explanation. He said it was all right, and she knew it was, and could wait until he was ready to explain. He omitted the revolver part, but told the story much as Hal had told it, while Connie listened with surprise and vexation at her own credulity in believing that the rite was valid. “I was very foolish, almost imbecile,” she said, “or I should have known better. But I was utterly ignorant of law or marriage contracts, and he was so persuasive, and I believed he knew everything. I never received his letter; if I had, it would have saved me much pain; but perhaps I might not have gone to the farmhouse, and _you_——” she added, nestling closer to him, while he rained kisses upon her upturned face. No words of betrothal passed between them. She knew she was his, and he knew he was hers, and the day passed rapidly, with nothing to mar their happiness except the knowing that Kenneth must go back to his patients, whom he had left too long. “I shall come again soon and many times, and in September you will be my wife,” he said at parting, and with this thought to cheer him he took the night train for Millville, where he was sorely needed.