Fifth Avenue.

"Don't," Austin said after a moment. "We mustn't kiss each other like
that when some one might see us--I forgot, for a minute, that there
_was_ any one else in the world! Besides, I'm afraid, if we do, I'll let
myself go more than I mean to--it's all been stifled inside me so
long--and be almost rough, and startle or hurt you. I couldn't bear to
have that happen to you--again. I want you always to feel safe and
shielded with me."

"Safe! I hope I'll be as safe in heaven as I am with you! Don't you think
I know what you've been through this last year?"

"No, I don't," he said passionately; "I hope not, anyway. And that was
before I ever touched you, besides. It's different now. I shan't kiss you
again to-day, my dear, except"--raising her hand to his lips--"like this.
Are you going to wait for me here?" he ended quietly, as the motor began
to slow down in front of the Waldorf.

"No," she said, her voice trembling; "I'm going to church, 'to thank God,
kneeling, for a good man's love.' Come for me there, when you're ready."

"Are you in earnest?"

"I never was more so."

He joined her at St. Bartholomew's an hour later, and seeking her out,
knelt beside her in the quiet, dim church, empty except for themselves.
She felt for his hand, and gripping it hard, whispered with downcast eyes
and flushed cheeks: