greater than itself. He had followed her footsteps, he had fetched and
carried, he had served afar off, he had ministered within the gates. He
had, unknown to her, watched like the keeper of the house over all who
came and went, neither envious nor over-zealous, neither intrusive nor
neglectful; leaving here a word and there an act to prove himself, above
all, the friend whom she could trust, and, in all, the lover whom she
might wake to know and reward. He had waited with patience, hoping
stubbornly that she might come to put her hand in his one day.

Long ago he would have left the island to widen his knowledge, earn
experience in his craft, or follow a career in the army--he had been an
expert gunner when he served in the artillery four years ago--and hammer
out fame upon the anvils of fortune in England or in France; but he had
stayed here that he might be near her. His love had been simple, it had
been direct, and wise in its consistent reserve. He had been self-
obliterating. His love desired only to make her happy: most lovers
desire that they themselves shall be made happy. Because of the crime
his father committed years ago--because of the shame of that hidden
crime--he had tried the more to make himself a good citizen, and had
formed the modest ambition of making one human being happy. Always
keeping this near him in past years, a supreme cheerfulness of heart had
welled up out of his early sufferings and his innate honesty. Hope had
beckoned him on from year to year, until it seemed at last that the time
had almost come when he might speak, might tell her all--his father's
crime and the manner of his father's death; of his own devoted purpose in
trying to expiate that crime by his own uprightness; and of his love for
her.

Now, all in a minute, his horizon was blackened. This adventurous
gallant, this squire of dames, had done in a day what he had worked, step