own pocketbook. But I was soon satisfied that they were real. Well--I
turned back to Jacqueline, ashamed of the suspicion that had crossed my
mind.

Her soft brown hair streamed over the pillow and hung down toward the
floor, a heavy mass, uncoiled from the wound braids upon her neck. Her
breast rose and fell evenly with her breathing. She looked even
younger than on the preceding evening. I was sure now that she was
innocent of evil, and my unworthy thoughts made me ashamed. Her
outstretched arm was extended beyond the edge of the bed.

I raised her hand and held in it my own, and I sat thus until the room
began to lighten, watching her all the while.

It was strange that as I sat there I began to grow comforted. I looked
on her as mine. When I had kissed her hands I had forgotten the ring
upon her finger; and now, holding that hand in mine and running my
fingers round and round the circlet of gold, I was not troubled at all.
I could not think of her as any other man's. She was mine--Jacqueline.

Presently she stirred, her eyes opened, and she sat up. I placed a
pillow at her back. She gazed at me with apathy, but there was also
recognition in her look.

"Do you know me, Jacqueline?" I asked.

"Yes, Paul," she answered.

"Your friend?"