fur cap had fallen off. Her long, shining braid was half undone and its
silken strands fell over her shoulder and glistened in the lamp-glow on
the table. His hand hesitated, and then fell gently on the bowed head.

"Sometimes the friend who lies is the only friend who's true," he said.
"I believe that it was necessary for you to--lie."

Just once his hand stroked her soft hair, then, catching himself, he
went to the opposite side of the narrow table and sat down. When the
girl raised her head there was a bright flush in her cheeks. He could
see the damp stain of tears on her face, but there was no sign of them
now in the eyes that seemed seeking in his own the truth of his words,
spoken a few moments before.

"You believe that?" she questioned eagerly. "You believe that it was
necessary for me to--lie?" She leaned a little toward him, her fingers
twining themselves about one another nervously, as she waited for him
to answer.

"Yes," said Howland. He spoke the one word with a finality that sent a
gladness into the soft brown eyes across from him. "I believe that you
_had_ to lie to me."

His low voice was vibrant with unbounded faith. Other words were on his
lips, but he forced them back. A part of what he might have said--a part
of the strange, joyous tumult in his heart--betrayed itself in his face,
and before that betrayal the girl drew back slowly, the color fading
from her cheeks.

"And I believe you will not lie to me again," he said.