"I have tried to say--that. Can you guess how mamma and I have followed you through scattered newspaper articles and items of European news? How we rejoiced and cried together when you saved the Emperor from death and were yourself wounded, when your name was everywhere? You wrote so seldom, and never to me." "I thought you must hate me for leaving Robert; I never forgot that." Her vivid face grew serious, her eyes fell to the fan in her lap. "I could never have felt so, whatever you had done. John, the last morning he spoke to us, Robert said that for us you had made a sacrifice we could not even conceive. He told us that we must never question you nor seek to know, but that you were above all blame. Perhaps I had already guessed you were not happy, remembering the night before you went away." "There was never one like Robert," he said, gratitude a pain. "Theodora, I never wondered that you loved him." She stirred, the faint, familiar sweetness of sandalwood and rose was shaken from her laces by the movement; wide and very soft were the eyes she lifted to his. "I did not love him, as you meant. John, John, you were wrong." The conservatory wavered before his gaze; he rose impetuously and she with him. "Wrong? Then--" "You, John. Oh, could you not tell a girl's playmate from her lover? Robert read the truth; and I believe he was glad. John--" Slowly, almost fearfully, he drew her to his arms. "Wrong! Oh, Theo, it has all been wrong, and the fault mine! That out of it all should come to-day, my dear, my dear." Presently she slipped from him, starrily radiant, leaving her hands in his as she looked up. "Do you know how I found courage to tell you this, John?" "You knew I loved you all my life." "But it was so very long, so very long; you might have forgotten or changed. No, it was because the night he came to our hotel, the Emperor told me that you cared for me still. 'That is why I brought you here, mademoiselle,' he said. 'What he gives once, he gives for ever, this Allard of ours.' And so I ventured." Allard looked out across the flower-draped arches to the ball-room beyond. Stately, self-contained, Stanief was moving down the floor between the parting throngs of guests, the gently glad Iría at his side. From his seat Adrian leaned forward to watch them, his keen, dark young face softened to a great content. "When we do wrong, sometimes we are allowed to make our payment, if we try," he said dreamily. "But how can we pay our debt of unearned happiness, Theodora?" Smiling, she drew nearer. "You have the man's justice, John; now learn the woman's art of graciousness. Unquestioningly let us accept our gifts." He turned to her, flushing, and took her hands. "It is that! Thank you, Theo. The account is closed; the rest--commences." THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Game and the Candle, by Eleanor M. Ingram