“Ethel—Ethel—may God forgive me!” he whispered brokenly. She swayed dizzily, and he caught and held her close. “I—I think I am going to faint,” she murmured. “I——” His arms tightened their clasp and her head drooped until it lay in the hollow of his shoulder. “Ethel, darling—only one little word! Ah, sweetheart—I’ve loved you so!” She raised her hand and just touched his cheek with her fingers, then let her arm fall about his neck. His head bent low and his lips closed over hers as she drew a long, quivering sigh. “May God forgive me,” he breathed, “but ’tis the end—the end!” XVIII When Ethel Barrington regained consciousness she was in her own bed at The Maples, but it was a full two days after that before they let her ask the questions that so often came to her lips. It was her father who finally answered her. “Yes, dear, you were unconscious when the miners found you. Westbrook could barely speak. Why, girlie, when that second crash came and the miners realized that Hustler Joe—as they insist upon calling that remarkable man—was himself imprisoned, they swarmed into that mine like ants and attacked the fallen wall like madmen! Those that had no pickaxe clawed at the dirt and stones with their naked fingers.” “And—Mr. Westbrook?” “Is all right and has been here every day to inquire for you and to bring you these,” replied Mr. Barrington, with a wave of his hand toward the sumptuous red roses on the table. The girl’s eyes lingered on the flowers and her cheeks suddenly glowed with a reflection of their vivid color. “He is very kind,” she murmured as she turned her face away. For a week Westbrook and his roses made daily calls. At the end of that time it was reported to him that Miss Barrington was feeling quite like herself. The next morning Westbrook did not appear, but his roses came in charge of a boy together with a note for Miss Barrington. The missive bore no date, no salutation, but plunged at once into its message. That I should address you at all is an insult, but my cowardly weakness when we were last together makes it a greater insult for me to keep silence now. I have waited until you were quite recovered before giving you this, for I know that it will give you pain—and that it _will_ give you pain is at once my greatest curse and my greatest joy. That I should have dared to love you is despicable, but that I should have allowed you to give me even one tender thought in return is dastardly—and yet, nothing in heaven or hell can take from me the ecstasy of that one moment when your dear lips met mine!