"It is just as well that you insisted on me seeing him, dear," she said on
entering the room. "He would have said things to you that you could not
have forgiven. As it is, you have nothing to forgive, and you have saved
yourself a good many tears. He—but, my dear, what's this? Have you been
crying?"

Anne, tall and slender, stood with her back to the window, her exquisite
face in the shadows. Even in the dim, colourless light of the waning day,
she was lovely—lovely even with the wet cheeks and the drooped, whimpering
lips.

"What did he say, mother?" she asked, her voice hushed and broken. "How
did he look?" Her head was bent and she looked at her mother from beneath
pain-contracted brows. "Was he angry? Was he desperate? Did—did he say
that he—that he loved me?"

"He looked very well, he was angry, he was desperate and he said that he
loved you," replied Mrs. Tresslyn, with the utmost composure. "So dry your
eyes. He did just what was to have been expected of him, and just what you
counted upon. He—"

"He honestly, truly said that he loved me?" cried the girl, lifting her
head and drawing a deep breath.

"Yes,—truly."

Anne dried her eyes with a fresh bit of lace.

"Sit down, mother, and tell me all about it," she said, jerking a small
chair around so that it faced the couch. Then she threw herself upon the