“Because I wanted to ask you a question. Do you think YOU are exactly the same--as you used to be?” “What do you mean?” “Haven't YOU changed a little? Are you as sure as you were then--as sure of your feeling toward me?” She gazed at him, wide-eyed. “WHAT do you mean?” “I mean ARE you sure? It has seemed to me that perhaps--I was out of your life for a long time, you know, and during a good deal of that time it seemed certain that I had gone forever. I am not blaming you, goodness knows, but--Madeline, isn't there--Well, if I hadn't come back, mightn't there have been some one--else?” She turned pale. “What do--” she stammered, inarticulate. “Why, why--” “It was Captain Blanchard, wasn't it?” The color came back to her cheeks with a rush. She blushed furiously and sprang to her feet. “How--how can you say such things!” she cried. “What do you mean? How DARE you say Captain Blanchard took advantage of--How--how DARE you say I was not loyal to you? It is not true. It is not true. I was. I am. There hasn't been a word--a word between us since--since the news came that you were--I told him--I said--And he has been splendid! Splendid! And now you say--Oh, what AM I saying? What SHALL I do?” She collapsed once more among the cushions. He leaned forward. “My dear girl--” he began, but she broke in. “I HAVEN'T been disloyal,” she cried. “I have tried--Oh, I have tried so hard--” “Hush, Madeline, hush. I understand. I understand perfectly. It is all right, really it is.” “And I should have kept on trying always--always.” “Yes, dear, yes. But do you think a married life with so much trying in it likely to be a happy one? It is better to know it now, isn't it, a great deal better for both of us? Madeline, I am going to my room. I want you to think, to think over all this, and then we will talk again. I don't blame you. I don't, dear, really. I think I realize everything--all of it. Good night, dear.” He stooped and kissed her. She sobbed, but that was all. The next morning a servant came to his room with a parcel and a letter. The parcel was a tiny one. It was the ring he had given her, in its case. The letter was short and much blotted. It read: Dear Albert: I have thought and thought, as you told me to, and I have concluded that you were right. It IS best to know it now. Forgive me, please, PLEASE. I feel wicked and horrid and I HATE myself, but I think this is best. Oh, do forgive me. Good-by. MADELINE. His reply was longer. At its end he wrote: Of course I forgive you. In the first place there is nothing to forgive. The unforgivable thing would have been the sacrifice of your happiness and your future to a dream and a memory. I hope you will be very happy. I am sure you will be, for Blanchard is, I know, a fine fellow. The best of fortune to you both.