“And I can't explain,” she said. “It really doesn't matter, anyway. I don't want even to think about it--at least to-day, when I am so happy. But I want you to know one thing: you see, Dora Barry showed me the letter you wrote her, and I want you to know that I love you. I have loved you every day, every minute, since you left.” “You love me--you really care for me?” he said, deep in his throat. “Yes; but come walk home with me, dear,” she said. “I want you all to myself. I shall never get my own forgiveness for allowing myself to misjudge you as I did. Let's not talk about it, but come on. Wynn may be back in a moment, and I don't want any explanations now, anyway. I want you wholly to myself.” As they walked down the quiet street side by side he tried to speak, but the happiness within him had risen to a storm, and he could only stare at her in silent wonder, as if doubting his own good-fortune. CONCLUSION |ONE of the great ocean bound steamships was ready for sailing from the New York harbor. On the deck, near the stern, somewhat removed from the others and leaning against the railing, stood a man and a child and a young woman so beautiful and so richly clad that the eyes of many of the passengers and their friends, who had massed themselves on the pier below, were fixed upon her admiringly. “It is going to be a glorious voyage, darling,” Kenneth Galt said, as he stroked the golden hair of the child. “The bay is as smooth as glass. Look how the people are staring at you! You cannot dream how beautiful you are. Are you happy, Dora?” She looked down at the water, put her hand against the cheek of the child, and smiled, a far-off look in her eyes. “Think, oh, think of what it means to _him!_” Just then Mrs. Barry came from the luxurious suite of state-rooms Galt had secured. “Some one has sent a great bunch of flowers,” she said to her daughter. “They were addressed to you. I asked the florist's man who sent them. He said he didn't know, but that it was a telegraphic order from somewhere. Go see them; they are simply beautiful. They perfume the whole place.” Leaving the three together, Dora went to the suite of rooms. In the one reserved for her, on a table, she found a great mass of damp, fresh roses. The card accompanying the gift had slipped down between the stems. She drew it out and read: “Bon voyage!” That was all. She sat down at the table, gathered a bunch of the flowers in her hands, and buried her flushed face in them. “Oh!” she cried, and then she burst into tears. “Bon voyage! bon voyage! From you--dear, dear, dear Wynn! I know. I understand. I have known and understood for years. I shall know and understand--always!” The signal for leaving had sounded. She felt the ponderous throb of the ship under her. She dried her eyes and walked out on the deck. Her husband came to meet her. He took her arm, and they leaned over the railing and looked down into the multitude of waving hats and handkerchiefs.