“If you love him, Maizie, you will let me clear his name as far as lies within my power.” For an instant you were silent, and then said softly, “You are right, Donald, we will clear his name.” I took your hand and touched it to my lips. “To hear you speak of him”—I could go no further, in my emotion. There was a pause before you asked, “Donald, do you remember our talk here last autumn?” “Every word.” You laughed gayly. “I want you to know, sir,” you asserted, with a pretense of defiance, “that I don’t believe in love, because I have never found any that was wholly free from self-indulgence or self-interest. And I still think”— Just then Mrs. Blodgett joined us, and inquired, “Have you told Rudolph, Maizie?” “Yes.” “I went to see how you were the moment I heard of your illness,” she said, with a certain challenge in her voice, “and I found that book lying on your desk just where you stopped writing from weakness. I read it, and I took it to Maizie.” “It was kismet, I suppose,” was all I could say, too happy to think of criticism, and instantly her manner changed and she wiped her eyes. “I had to do it,” she sobbed. “You have been too good to me,” I answered, rising and taking her hand. “There, there,” she continued, steadying herself. “I didn’t come out to behave like this, but to tell you to go to bed at once. I’m going to your room to see that everything is right for our invalid, but don’t you delay a minute after I’m gone,” and she disappeared through the doorway. I turned to you and held out my hand, bidding you, “Good-night, Maizie,” and you took it, and replied, “Goodnight, Don.” Then suddenly you leaned forward, and, kissing my forehead, added, “God keep you safe for me, my darling.” I took you in my arms, and gave you back your kiss twofold, while saying, “Good-night, my love.” XXVI A man does not willingly spread on paper the sweetest and tenderest moments of his life. When half crazed with grief and illness I might express my suffering, much as, in physical pain, some groan aloud; but the deepest happiness is silent, for it is too great to be told. And lest, my dears, you think me even less manly than I am, I choose to add here the reason for my writing the last few pages of this story of my love, that if you ever read it you may know the motive which made me tell what till to-night I have kept locked in my heart. This evening the dearest woman in the world came to me, as I sat at my desk in the old library, and asked, “Are you busy, Donald?” “I am reading the one hundred and forty-seventh complimentary review of my History of the Moors, and I am so sick of sweets that your interruption comes as an unalloyed pleasure.” “Am I bitter or acid?” she asked, leaning over my shoulder and arranging my hair, which is one of her ways of pleasing me. “You are my exact opposite,” I said gravely. “How uncomplimentary you are!” she cried, with a pretense of anger in her voice.