She swayed to him again, deliciously graceful, deliciously unselfconscious, trusting, adorable. Already in the little nothingnesses of manner, the trifles of mental and bodily attitude, she had assumed that faint trace of the maternal which to the observant tells so plainly that a woman has given herself to a man. She leaned her cheek against her hand, and her hand against his shoulder. “I have been reading a story lately,” said she, “that has interested me very much. It was about a man who renounced all he held most dear to shield a friend.” “Yes,” said Thorpe. “Then he renounced all his most valuable possessions because a poor common man needed the sacrifice.” “Sounds like a medieval story,” said he with unconscious humor. “It happened recently,” rejoined Hilda. “I read it in the papers.” “Well, he blazed a good trail,” was Thorpe's sighing comment. “Probably he had his chance. We don't all of us get that. Things go crooked and get tangled up, so we have to do the best we can. I don't believe I'd have done it.” “Oh, you are delicious!” she cried. After a time she said very humbly: “I want to beg your pardon for misunderstanding you and causing you so much suffering. I was very stupid, and didn't see why you could not do as I wanted you to.” “That is nothing to forgive. I acted like a fool.” “I have known about you,” she went on. “It has all come out in the Telegram. It has been very exciting. Poor boy, you look tired.” He straightened himself suddenly. “I have forgotten,--actually forgotten,” he cried a little bitterly. “Why, I am a pauper, a bankrupt, I--” “Harry,” she interrupted gently, but very firmly, “you must not say what you were going to say. I cannot allow it. Money came between us before. It must not do so again. Am I not right, dear?” She smiled at him with the lips of a child and the eyes of a woman. “Yes,” he agreed after a struggle, “you are right. But now I must begin all over again. It will be a long time before I shall be able to claim you. I have my way to make.” “Yes,” said she diplomatically. “But you!” he cried suddenly. “The papers remind me. How about that Morton?” “What about him?” asked the girl, astonished. “He is very happily engaged.” Thorpe's face slowly filled with blood. “You'll break the engagement at once,” he commanded a little harshly. “Why should I break the engagement?” demanded Hilda, eying him with some alarm. “I should think it was obvious enough.” “But it isn't,” she insisted. “Why?” Thorpe was silent--as he always had been in emergencies, and as he was destined always to be. His was not a nature of expression, but of action. A crisis always brought him, like a bull-dog, silently to the grip. Hilda watched him puzzled, with bright eyes, like a squirrel. Her quick brain glanced here and there among the possibilities, seeking the explanation. Already she knew better than to demand it of him. “You actually don't think he's engaged to ME!” she burst out finally.