"I'm afraid nobody but myself knows how glad.... Kate, I hardly know how
to begin what I want to say. I--it's hard; not having seen you so long,
makes it harder. I--"

She cried, in pretty amazement: "But what in the world is it? Tom! You
almost frighten me! I haven't done anything wrong, have I? Shall I be put
to bed without my supper? ... Do speak, Tom. Tell me what all this mystery
is."

Still slowly, hands folding and unfolding, dark eyes upon hers of violet,
he continued:

"Kate, Jack Schuyler loves you; and I lo--"

He had intended to say more; and what that more was one would but have
had to look into his eyes to tell; but he had been looking into hers; he
had seen the gleam that had leaped there at his words; and that is why he
did not finish.

"Tom!" she exclaimed, softly.... And then, "Did Jack tell you that--
himself?"

He nodded.

"He was afraid to tell me himself?"

Again he nodded. It was not so. But he lied; as would you, or I, had we
been as good a man as he. He had come there knowing that a woman loves
but one man. He had come there knowing that, if Schuyler were not the man