“It must have been a dreadful ordeal to pass through alone,” she said. “We are so distressed for your sake.” And she seemed so keenly sympathetic that Dan's heart gave a great bound in his breast. He put aside his mounting bitterness against her. “I don't know why I came to see you to-day. I just wanted to, and so I came. I don't want to force a friendship.” Miss Emory murmured that no excuse was necessary. “I am not too sure of that. I must appear bent on exhibiting myself and my woes, but I can't go into retirement, and I can't let people see I'm hurt.” His face took on a strong resolve. He couldn't go without telling her he loved her. His courage was suddenly riotous. “Once, not long ago, I dared to believe I might level the differences between us. I recognized what they were, but now it is hopeless. There are some things a man can't overcome, no matter how hard he tries, and I suppose being the son of a murderer is one of these.” He paused, and, raising his eyes from the carpet, glanced at her, but her face was averted. He went on, desperately: “It's quite hopeless, but I have dared to hope, and I wanted you to know. I hate to leave things unfinished.” There was a long silence, then Miss Emory said, softly: “I am so sorry.” “Which means you've never cared for me,” dryly. But she did not answer him. She was wondering how she would have felt had the confession come forty-eight hours earlier. “I suppose I've been quite weak and foolish,” said Dan. She looked into his face with a slow smile. “Why do you say that? Is it weak and foolish to care for some one?” “Wasn't it?” with suddenly kindled hope, for he found it hard to give her up. Miss Emory drew herself together with a sigh. “I never thought of this,” she said, which was hardly true; she had thought of it many times. “No,” admitted Dan, innocently enough, for her lightest word had become gospel to him, such was his love and reverence. “You couldn't know.” Poor Oakley, his telling of it was the smallest part of the knowledge. “I think I see now, perfectly, how great a difference this affair of my father's must make. It sort of cuts me off from everything.” “It is very tragic. I wish you hadn't told me just now.” Her lips trembled pathetically, and there were tears in her eyes. “I've wanted to tell you for a long time.” “I didn't know.” “Of course you couldn't know,” he repeated; then he plunged ahead recklessly, for he found there was a curious satisfaction in telling her of his love, hopeless as it was. “It has been most serious and sacred to me. I shall never forget you--never. It has helped me in so many ways just to know you. It has changed so many of my ideals. I can't be grateful enough.” Miss Emory approved his attitude. It was as it should be. She was sorry for him. She admired his dignity and repression. It made him seem so strong and purposeful.