His face was set and pale, his lips twisted awry. Again he drew his hand away. "Have you any idea when they will arrest me?" he asked, hollowly. "Not for a week or so, anyway," Mary responded. "The sheriff said that you would not be allowed to leave here. Do you want to get away, Charlie?" "It would do no good to try," he sighed, and yet bravely, for he was not thinking of himself at all. "It would be an open admission that I was avoiding the law." He sighed again and stood up. "Pardon me," he said, "but I mustn't let you compromise yourself like this. You say I am watched, and it would be unfair to you--to your father--to your brothers--for your name to be associated in the slightest with mine." "Oh, what can I do?" Mary was standing by him now, her hand upon his arm. "I thought I was unhappy over my brothers, but, now that they are out of trouble, I am in agony over you. Oh, Charlie, don't you see--don't you understand--" Her voice broke in a sob. He was swayed by a storm of emotion. He was about to take her in his arms, when the thought of being seen by a hidden observer checked him. "You must go in now," he said. "See how the dew is settling on your hair." She nodded mutely, and side by side they went to the house. The sitting-room on the left of the hall was lighted, the parlor on the right was dark. "Come into the parlor," she said, in a low, firm tone. "No one could see us there, and--and--oh, Charlie! I can't part with you like this! I can't bear it. I'd lie awake all night." In the silence of the big room they stood facing each other. Their hands met like drowning persons afloat in a dark, calm sea. He could see her eyes in the gloom. They seemed like portals of escape from a living hell. Her quick breath fanned his face; the warmth of her being drove the deathlike chill from his body. He took her face into his hands, and bent and kissed her lips. She put her head on his breast, her arms about his neck, and held him tightly. "They shall not part us," she whispered against his cheek. "Never, never, never!" CHAPTER XXX The Boston family were at breakfast. William was in his place next to his wife, and his uncle, who now lived in the house, sat opposite him. The two men were talking of stocks, bonds, securities, and insurance rates. Celeste was taking no part in the conversation. In her morning dress she looked as frail and dainty as ever. Presently the maid who was waiting at the table bent over her shoulder and, smiling, whispered something to her. "Oh, is he!" Celeste exclaimed. "Tell him to wait. I want to see him after breakfast." "Who is it, dear?" William asked. "It is Michael," she returned. "He has got back from New York. I want to find out how his mother is. He has been away longer than usual. I am afraid she may be worse." Raising his coffee-cup to his lips, William dismissed the subject and continued his chat with his uncle.