as by a vise. "Why don't you answer? Does she still love me?"

Grace glanced at the drawn face of Henry Veath and saw there the
struggle that was going on in his mind. With a cry she tore aside the
curtains and rushed into the room, confronting the questioner and the
questioned.

"Grace!" gasped the former, staggering back as if from the effect of a
mighty blow. Through his dizzy brain an instant later shot the necessity
for action of some kind. There stood Grace, swaying before him, ready to
fall. She loved him! He must clasp her to his heart as if he loved her.
This feeble impulse forced him forward, his arms extended. "Don't be
afraid, dear. I am not a ghost!"

Veath dropped into a chair near the window, and closed his eyes, his
ears, his heart.

"Oh, Hugh, Hugh," the girl moaned, putting her hands over her face, even
as he clasped her awkwardly, half-heartedly in his arms. He was saying
distressedly to himself: "She loves me! I cannot break her heart!"

Neither moved for a full minute, and then Hugh drew her hands from her
eyes, his heart full of pity.

"Grace, look at me," he said. "Are you happy?"

Their eyes met and there was no immediate answer. What each saw in the
eyes of the other was strange and puzzling. She saw something like
hopeless dread, struggling to suppress itself beneath a glassy film; he
saw pitiful fear, sorrow, shame, everything but the glad lovelight he