She started at the words, but she knew instantly that she had nought to fear. His voice was as steady as his eyes. He asked this thing of her as a sign of her forgiveness, of her friendship, of her trust; and every generous impulse urged her to grant it. She knew that if she refused he would get up and go away, cut to the heart. She seemed to feel him pleading with her, earnestly beseeching her, reasoning against prejudice, against the shackles of conventionality, against reason itself. And through it all her love for the man throbbed at the very heart of her, overriding all doubt. She leaned towards him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders. "In token of my trust!" she said, and bent to kiss his forehead. But he gave her his lips instead--the thin, cynical lips that were wont to smile so bitterly. There was no bitterness about them now. They were only grave to sternness. And so, after a moment, she kissed him as he wished, and he kissed her in return. Afterwards, he rose in unbroken silence, and went away. CHAPTER VI THE BURIAL OF A HATCHET During the weeks that followed, something of her former tranquillity came back to Anne. It was evident that Nap was determined to show himself worthy of her trust, for never by word or look did he make the slightest reference to what had passed between them. He came and went after his customary sudden fashion. He never informed any one of his movements, nor did even Lucas know when he might be expected at Baronmead. But his absences were never of long duration, and Anne met him fairly frequently. She herself was more at leisure now than she had been for years, for Lucas had found an agent for her and the sole care of her husband's estate no longer lay upon her. She spent much of her time with Mrs. Errol. Her happiest hours were those she spent with Lucas and his mother in the great music-room at Baronmead. It was here also that she learned to know of that hidden, vital quantity, elusive as flame, that was Nap Errol's soul. For here he would often join them, and the music he drew from his violin, weirdly passionate, with a pathos no words could ever utter, was to Anne the very expression of the man's complex being. There were times when she could hardly hear that wild music of his without tears. It was like the crying of something that was lost. Often, after having accompanied him for a long time, she would take her hands from the piano and sit silent with a strange and bitter sense of impotence, as if he were leading whither she could not follow. And Nap would play on and on in the quiet room, as though he played for her alone, with the sure hand of a master upon the quivering strings of her woman's heart.