He kissed her and she passively received his caresses, so passively, so without making him any sign, that his magnificent assurance began to be shaken—his arms fell from her. “It’s quite true,” he murmured, “I am poor.” She led him to the lounge and made him sit down by her. He waited for her to speak, but she remained silent, her eyes fixed on her frail hands, ringless—tears forced themselves under her eyelids, but she kept them back. “I guess,” she said in a veiled tone, “you’ve no idea all I’ve been through, Dan, since I stood there in the church choir.” American though he was, and down on foreign customs—he wouldn’t fight a duel—he got down on his knees and put his arms around her from there. “I know what you are, all right, Letty. You are an angel.” She gave way and burst into tears and hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed. “I believe you do—I believe you do. You’ve saved my soul and my life. I’ll go with you—I’ll go—I’ll go!” * * * * * Later she told him how she would learn to cook and sew, and that together they would stand in the door of their shack at sunset, or that she would stand and watch for him to come home; and, the actress in her strong, she sprang up for a minute and stood shielding her eyes with her slender hand to show him how. And he gazed, charmed at her, and drew her back to him again. “You’ve made dad’s words come true.” Dan wouldn’t tell her what they were—he said she wouldn’t understand. “I nearly had to die to learn them myself,” he said. She leaned toward him, a slight shadow crossed her face as if memories laid a darkling wing for a moment there. Such shadows must have passed, for she kissed him of her own accord on the lips and without a sigh. Side by side they sat for a long time. Higgins softly opened a door, saw them, and stepped back, unheard. Ruggles came in, and his steps in the soft carpet made no sound; and he looked at the pair long and tenderly before he spoke. They sat there before him like children, holding hands. Letty Lane’s hat lay on the floor. Her hair was a halo around her pale, charming face; she had caught youth from the boy, she was laughing like a girl—they were making plans. And as the subject was Love, and there was no money in the question, and as there was sacrifice on the part of each, it is safe to think that old Dan Blair’s son was planning to purchase those things that stay above ground and persist in the hearts of us all. THE END End of Project Gutenberg's The Girl From His Town, by Marie Van Vorst