He caught up a lock of her hair and held it against the light. It glistened like fine-spun gold. He leaned down and pressed it to his lips; and again he felt that tightening of her fingers, that slight shiver passing through her. He bent forward and saw that the tears had escaped again. “Margaret,” he whispered, “look up.” Her eyes lifted a little, then dropped. He waited and then whispered again, “Look up, dear.” Slowly she raised them until they met his fairly, and their two souls were gazing straight, each to each. Her fingers tightened and tightened; she was trembling. And at last he caught her wildly with both his arms and drew her against him and kissed her forehead, her eyes, her mouth. And her tears fell without restraint. “Dear girl,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear, “Dear girl, you love me--I know you love me. I have waited--it is a long while that I have waited--but all the waiting is over now. Tell me that it is all over--that we are going to begin our lives--our life--new again. Tell me that we are going to be happy.” There was a moment during which she struggled to free herself. “Don't, oh, don't!” she cried brokenly. “Please stop, John!” And he, hurt and wondering, released her, and stood up, watching her stupidly as she fell back in the chair and covered her eyes. Poor Halloran! He had been supposing that he understood her--that he really could see a little way into that complex nature. And the discovery that he was still far on the outside of her personality brought a cruel shock. He could not know that while his thoughts had rambled ahead, constructing their life, hers had been absorbed in the happiness of that one golden hour. He could not understand how his words, and the realization of what this evening meant to them both, had burst upon her with a force that frightened her. He could not be expected to know what a struggle had come with this first open thought of giving herself up to a man--what questions it raised, what problems of wholly reconstructing a life; how the great question loomed before her in dimensions that seemed almost tragic. He could not understand this; and so, when he finally spoke, it was with a touch of quiet dignity: “Margaret,” he said, “I have asked you to be my wife.” There was a more and more appealing quality in his voice as he went on. “I have asked you to be my wife. Can't you give me your answer?” She shook her head without uncovering her eyes. “Shall I come for it to-morrow, then, Margaret? I think I have told you everything. You know that I love you. I can't live without you--I dread even to think of waiting. It means so much to me, Margaret, so very much, that I don't know----” He paused, for his voice was beginning to shake a little. Still she was silent. “Have you”--it was getting difficult to speak--“have you nothing to tell me?” “Oh, John,” she managed to say, “I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!” “Is--is that all, Margaret?” “You must not come to-morrow--I can't let you.”