The all but imperceptible rustle of Margaret's dress caused him to look up. The song of doubt, entreaty and of triumph stopped abruptly. She was standing at his side, pale and breathless, as though drawn there by a spell. Then the red burned upon her cheeks—she would have turned away. “Don't go! Don't leave me—you must not! Not until I know!” He caught one of her hands into his own and held it firmly, but she offered no resistance. “You must tell me now—now,” he said. “I can wait no longer, Margaret!—Margaret!” “What shall I tell you?” she asked in tones so low he could scarcely hear. It gave him courage as hers seemed to ebb, for she was pale and trembling. “That you love me!” he cried, “that you love me, Margaret! That you love me and will be my wife.” And he drew her into his arms. “Margaret! Margaret!” repeating her name in an ecstacy of delight. “Is it so? Do you love me, dear?” She put up her hand appealingly as if she entreated him to say no more. Slowly he loosed his arms from about her and she sank down into a chair, while Franz regarded her with a troubled brow. “Let me think!” she gasped. “Oh! let me think!” Then sadly: “I have lost my friend. I am so sorry—so sorry.” “Yes,” Franz answered steadily, “you must choose now and forever between your friend and your lover.” On the table beside Margaret's chair lay the book she had been reading that afternoon. A black bordered handkerchief was visible where it rested in the leaves of the half-opened volume marking her place. In their nervous wanderings her eyes fell upon it and their roving glance was instantly arrested. The memory of what had been fell like a cloud, blotting out the present. Franz saw the handkerchief, too, saw that she shrank from it. He stretched forth his hand and took up the bit of black and white. He held it in his tightened grasp until it was a crushed and crumpled heap in his broad palm, then it was dropped to be whirled up in momentary brightness by the fire. Margaret gave a little cry. What it meant he knew, for it was glad, free and bouyant, as if a load had been lifted from her by the single act. She put out her arms and Franz sank down on his knees before her. A new feeling surged into his heart. He had felt a man's desire for possession—now, when the victory was won, this was changed to infinite tenderness. He looked up into her face and saw what a woman's love was like, and he was well content. “Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, has it all ended—the past? Has the new day dawned for us—for both of us?” And Margaret, her hand resting on his shoulder, answered, “Yes.” How long they were together after that neither of them knew. The happy moments are those that are never counted. Only misery has time to note the flight of time and to curse its slowness, grumbling at the lagging seconds. But she had space to tell him of the life she had lived, the life that took its place that night with the things to be forgotten.