hungrily eyeing her profile. Then in a second, he had crushed her head
to his shoulder, and was fiercely kissing her again and again--lips,
hair, eyes; eyes, hair, lips.

"There!" he panted, releasing her. He laughed foolishly, biting his
nails. His mouth felt as if roofed with sand-paper. His face was white,
but not as white as hers.

She was silent. Then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and very
carefully wiped her lips. She was absolutely silent, but a pulse was
beating--beating in her slim throat. The action, her silence, inflamed
Waterbury. He made to crush her waist with his ravenous arm. Then, for
the first time, she turned slowly, and her narrowed eyes met his.
He saw, even in the gloom. Again he laughed, but the onrushing blood
purpled his neck.

Desperation came to help him brave those eyes--came and failed. He
talked, declaimed, avowed--grew brutally frank. Finally he spoke of the
mortgage he held, and waited, breathing heavily, for the answer. There
was none.

"I suppose it's some one else, eh?" he rapped out, red showing in the
brown of his eyes.

Silence. He savagely cut the gelding across the ears, and then checked
its answering, maddened leap. The red deepened in Sue's cheek--two red
spots, the flag of courage.

"It's this nephew of Major Calvert's," added Waterbury. He lost the
last shred of common decency he could lay claim to; it was caught up and