to win. You'll have back of you, If I do say it, two of the best
women God ever made. Only, now, you must do as I say." There was
a pause. "Will you?" he begged.

Vera raised her head slowly, holding her hand across her eyes.
There was a longer silence, and then she looked up at him and
smiled pathetically, gratefully, and nodded. "Good!" cried
Winthrop. "No more spooks," he laughed, "no more spirit
rappings."

Through her tears Vera smiled up at him a wan, broken smile. She
gave a shudder of distaste. "Never!" she whispered. "I promise."
Their eyes met; the girl's looking into his shyly, gratefully;
the man's searching hers eagerly. And suddenly they saw each
other with a new and wonderful sympathy and understanding.
Winthrop felt himself bending toward her. He was conscious that
the room had grown dark, and that he could see only her eyes.
"You must be just yourself," he commanded, but so gently, so
tenderly, that, though he did not know it, each word carried
with it the touch of a caress, "just your sweet, fine, noble
self!"

Something he read in the girl's uplifted eyes made him draw back
with a shock of wonder, of delight, with an upbraiding
conscience. To pull himself together, he glanced quickly about
him. The day had really grown dark. He felt a sudden desire to
get away; to go where he could ask himself what had happened,
what it was that had filled this unknown, tawdry room with
beauty and given it the happiness of a home.