"No, I believe not," she answered, doubtfully. "I never dreamed of such a thing, I'll admit. I always thought we would have a little cottage somewhere----" "We?" joyfully. "Of course. We. I was waiting for you, you know." "Well, dearest, I hope you will become accustomed to something larger than a cottage. Money has some advantages, you know." "I doubt not I shall if you will teach me. Oh, Dick, I am so happy! I feel so sorry for that other girl." "What other girl?" he asked, faintly conscience-smitten. "Josephine, you know. The girl you saved." Her words struck him like a blow. They brought him to himself. He had to tell her the truth. They were by this time sitting side by side on the gun-carriage on the little platform overlooking the brow of the hill. "Emily, dearest," said Revere, desperately. He hated to do it; he told himself that he was a fool to say anything, yet her presence and her trust compelled him. "I have something to confess to you. I cannot allow a shadow of deceit to rest on our happiness this heavenly night, and even though it hurts you----" "Tell me, Dick," she said, as he lingered, reluctant to speak, "whatever it may be. I think I have had happiness enough to last a lifetime as it is; and you love me, don't you? It is not that you do not?" "Love you? I worship you!" "Then nothing can matter much," she interrupted. "But I must say it," he persevered; "I am--I was engaged to marry----" "Josephine?" a note of terror in the exclamation. "Yes," with great contrition. There was a long silence. The girl shrank away from him. She hid her face in her hands, but she did not weep. That would come later. Was she not to be happy, after all? He felt so guilty and conscience-stricken that he made no attempt to restrain her movement of avoidance, although he longed to take her in his arms again. "Oh, Richard, how could you?" she said at last, the misery and reproach in her voice cutting him to the heart. "I could not help it." It was the old answer that seems so weak, so futile, so foolish, and yet the only answer that could be given; a vague reply, and yet she comprehended. "I've been a mean coward," he exclaimed. "But at least I love you, and I could not help it." "Yes, I believe that--that you love me, I mean,--but you could have helped it," she answered, faintly. "Well, I ought to have helped it," he admitted, in honest misery; "but I love you, and before you it was hard to be silent." "But you loved the other girl before?" "No, never, I swear to you!" "Look me in the face, Richard." She turned him about in the moonlight and gazed at him keenly, passionately, hungrily almost. He met her glance undaunted. The incubus of the secret was lifted from him--he was another man, even though still bound. "Emily, I swear to you that my heart has never beat quicker at the thought of her since I have known her. Believe that." "Yes, I do believe," said the girl, trustingly, at last.