It was an unexpected opportunity, and, though the man aid not know this, the last he would have. The girl, as she had said, was willing to give him all she had to offer, of which her faith in him was not the least, but he had not the courage to put it to the test. Had he done so she would have taken his word, and believed in it against all other testimony; but the story he had to tell was not a pleasant one, and he dreaded her incredulity, in which he wronged her past forgiveness. Meanwhile, looking up at her he saw, not the love and strength which would have saved him from his weaknesses, but the calm, proud face which was tender, too, just then, the gleaming red‐gold hair, and the beautifully moulded form. In place of speaking he gazed at her a moment with passion in his eyes. “I can never understand how you came to think of me at all,” he said. “I am not fit to dust your shoes; but if I lost you now I think it would kill me.” The girl checked him with a little quiet gesture, and laid the hand she raised from his shoulder on his forehead. “I like to hear you tell me so, but there are times when the man who is willing to lose everything gains the most. I wonder if you understand that, Tony? There are men who do.” “No,” said Tony in honest bewilderment, “I’m afraid I can’t.” “Still,” said the girl softly, “it is true; but perhaps it isn’t seemly that I should preach to you. Am I to conclude that if any odium follows your friend because he went out that night you could not dispel it?” This left a loophole, which was unfortunate, because the man reflected that he could offer no convincing testimony as to what had really happened at the fir spinny. “No,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “I could not.” Violet Wayne looked at him steadily, and Tony, who saw the gravity in her eyes, felt his heart thumping furiously. Then she said very slowly: “Since you have given me your word we will never mention this again.” Tony drew in his breath as he turned his head away. The crisis had passed, and he knew that Violet Wayne believed him; but a little shiver ran through him, for he felt that he was committed to a course of deception now, and that if exposure came he could not face her scorn. She was a proud woman, who seldom unbent even to him as she had done that evening, and his one impulse was to lead her thoughts as far from the question she had asked him as he conveniently could. “You hinted that you had met men who would give up everything for—a fancy,” he said. “Do I know them?” “You know one. I think Bernard Appleby would sacrifice a good deal for a friend—or a woman he respected.” “He could not help it in your case. You could compel most men to do almost anything for you.” The girl shook her head. “Even if that is true it would not gratify me much,” she said. “It is only those nearest and dearest to me I expect the most from, and that I am not worthy of it does not affect the case. Still, I think we have talked sufficiently in this strain.”