“Why, my dear--my dear--” he said in a bewilderment of distress; and kneeling by her, he took her wrists and drew them to him. The palms of her hands and her cheeks were wet with miserable tears. “What must you think of me? What futile, feeble creature must you think me? Heaven knows I'm degraded enough--but not to that level. Do you suppose I ever thought you a rich man? Oh, you have hurt me--flayed me alive. I did n't deserve it! I would follow you in rags barefoot through the world. What does it matter so long as it is you that I follow?” What could mortal man do but take the wounded woman of his idolatry into his arms? The single-hearted creature, aghast at the havoc he had wrought, bitterly reproached himself for want of faith in the perfect being. He had committed a horrible crime, plunged daggers, stab after stab, into that radiant bosom. She sobbed in his embrace--a little longer than was strictly necessary. Tears and sobs were a wonder to her, who since early childhood had never known the woman's relief of weeping. It came upon her first as a wondrous new-found emotion; when his strong arms were about her, as an unutterably sweet solace. And the man's voice in her ears was all that has nearly been said but never been quite said in music. Presently she drew herself away from him. “Do you think I am such a fool that I can't sew?” He sank back on his heels. She rose, helping herself to rise by a hand on his arm, an action wonderfully sweet in its intimacy, and crossed over to Aline's cane-bottomed, armless easy-chair. She plucked the shirt from the basket on the top of which Aline had thrust it, groped among the wilderness of spools, tape, bits of ribbon, scissors, needle-cases, patterns and year-old draper's bills for a thimble, found the needle sticking in the work, and began to sew with a little air of defiance. Jimmie looked on, ravished. He drew nearer. “God bless my soul,” he said. “Do you mean to say you can do that?” There was nothing she could not do in this hour of exaltation. She had found herself--simple woman with simple man. It was her hour. Her feet trod the roots of life; her head touched the stars. “Sit in your chair and smoke, and let us see what it will be like,” she commanded. He obeyed. But whether it was tobacco or gunpowder in his old briarwood pipe he could not have told. The poor wretch was mazed with happiness. “Poor little Aline is all by herself upstairs,” said Norma, after a while. “Heaven forgive me,” cried Jimmie, starting up. “I had n't thought about her!” Chapter XXIV--MRS. HARDACRE FORGETS WHILE this tragical comedy of the domestic felicities was being enacted, Connie Deering's brougham containing three agitated, silent, human beings was rapidly approaching the scene.