He joined her at St. Bartholomew's an hour later, and seeking her out, knelt beside her in the quiet, dim church, empty except for themselves. She felt for his hand, and gripping it hard, whispered with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks: "Austin, I have a confession to make." "Of course, you have--I knew that from the moment I got your telegram. Well, how bad is it?" he said, trying to make his voice sound as light as possible. But her courage had apparently failed her, for she did not answer, so at last he went on: "You didn't miss me much, at first, did you? When you thought of me I seemed a little--not much, of course, but quite an important little--out of focus on the only horizon that your own world sees. Well, I knew that was bound to happen, and that if you really cared for me as much as you thought you did at the farm, it was just as well that it should--for you'd soon find out how much your own horizon had broadened and beautified. Don't blame yourself too much for that. I suppose the worst confession, however, is that something occurred to make you long, just a little, to have me with you again--just as you were glad to see me come into the room the last day our minister called. What was it?" "Austin! How can you guess so much?" "Because I care so much. Go on." "People began to make love to me," she faltered, "and at first I did--like it. I--flirted just a little. Then--oh, Austin, don't make me tell you!" "I never imagined," he said grimly, "that Thomas and Mr. Jessup were the only men who would ever look at you twice. I suppose I've got to expect that men are going to _try_ to make love to you always--unless I lock you up where no one but me can see you, and that doesn't seem very practical in this day and generation! But I don't see any reason--if you love me--why you should _let_ them. You have certainly got to tell me, Sylvia." "I will not, if you speak to me that way," she flashed back. "Why should I? You wouldn't tell me all the foolish things you ever did!" "Yes, Sylvia, I will," he said gravely, "as far as I can without incriminating anybody else--no man has a right to kiss--or do more than that--and tell, in such a way as to betray any woman--no matter what sort she is. Some of the things I've done wouldn't be pleasant, either to say or to hear; for a man who is as hopeless as I was before you came to us is often weak enough to be perilously near being wicked. But if you wish to be told, you have every right to. And so have I a right to an answer to my question. No one knows better than I do that I'm not worthy of you in any way. But you must think I am or you wouldn't marry me, and if you're going to be my wife, you've got to help me to keep you--as sacred to me as you are now. Shall I tell first, or will you? A church is a wonderful place for a confession, you know, and it would be much better to have it behind us."