"I tried to tell you before--before I went away--as soon as I knew that you--that you cared, Don. As soon as I was sure.... I started to write it in the letter I left for you--and I hadn't the courage.... 'My sister Anne, with whom I live----' I remember I wrote that far, and crossed it out. I was going to say--I should have said--'My sister Anne, with whom I live, is a myth. There is no such person living. I have lived alone, through all these years, and played two parts----'" He gazed at her, now, with comprehension dawning in his eyes. His very soul shuddered at the fearful disfigurement which seemed like a desecration of her wonderful face. His intense, passionate love of all that was beautiful and perfect wrought in him, for a moment, a feeling of horror. A fearful, almost physical, recoil. And if it was thus with him, he thought, wildly, what must it have been to her--sensitive, high-strung, with magnificent gifts--a handicap which, in her chosen profession, could never be overcome--unless-- In a blinding flash he saw the reason for her deception of all the world--a deception which, lastly, had involved himself. He understood, with sure, keen insight, what her temptation must have been--and, understanding, he forgave. The expression of his eyes altered, was changed, illuminated, with a love transcending all things. Again he stretched out his arms: "Mary," he whispered. "Mary----" With a little cry of joy unspeakable she started toward him--and stopped. "No, no," she said, softly. "Not yet. Not yet, my beloved. I have suffered--suffered, to come to you clean. I said I would come to you clean, or not at all." Then, to his amazement, she drew a handkerchief from her breast and turned away from him to a small mirror which hung against the wall. A moment--and she faced him. Radiant, glorified love was in her eyes--and on her perfect face there was no mark or blemish. CHAPTER XXIX KATE RUTHERFORD RELIEVES HER MIND "It was your own fault, Don. Your own fault, boy," Doctor Stevens remarked, with partly assumed annoyance. "If you'd waited at home until I 'phoned, you never would have seen Miss Blake with that dreadful thing on her face. It was part of the experiment I was trying upstairs." He looked across his private office at a stately figure ensconced in the largest chair in the room. "It was Mrs. Rutherford who suggested how it could be managed, and she made Miss Blake up with her own fair hands. And Mr. Clancy backed me up in style." He glanced aside at Peter who was sitting near him. "But," said Donald, looking down into the glowing face so near to his, as he and Mary (as he insisted on calling her) sat together upon a couch. "But I can't realize it all, somehow. The--mark, dear," he clasped her hand tenderly, "was a birthmark, wasn't it? I thought that it was practically impossible----"