"That is how I knew. Oh, Crawford, I am so sorry for you. I have been writing you. But WHY did you come here again? It--it makes it so much harder for--for both of us."

He did not answer the question. "You knew my father was dead," he said again. "I wonder"--he was speaking slowly and his gaze was fixed upon her face--"I wonder how much more you know."

She started back. "How much--" she repeated, "How much more-- Oh, what do you mean?"

"I mean how much did you know about my father when you and I were together--when I came on here and asked you to marry me?"

She put a hand to her throat. "Oh!" she cried breathlessly. "YOU know! He told you!"

"Yes, Mary, he told me. Before he died he told me everything. And you knew it! I know now why you would not marry me--the son of a thief."

She looked at him in pained astonishment. The tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, how can you!" she exclaimed. "How can you say that to me? How can you think it? As if that would make any difference! I learned your father's name and--and what he had done--by accident.

It was only the night before you came. It would have made no difference to me. For myself I didn't care--but-- Oh, Crawford, how can you think it was because he was--that?"

His eyes were shining.

"I don't think it," he cried triumphantly. "I never have thought it, Mary. I believe--ever since I knew, I have dared to believe that you sent me away because you were trying to save me from disgrace. You had learned who and what my father had been and I did not know. And you feared that if you married me the secret might come out and I would be ashamed, my career would be spoiled, and all that. I have dared to believe this and that is why I came back to you--to ask if it was true. Can't you see? I HAD to come. IS it true, Mary?"

He came toward her. She would have run away if she could, but there was nowhere to run.

"Look at me, Mary," he commanded. "Look at me, and tell me this: It wasn't because you didn't love me that you sent me away? It wasn't really that, was it? Tell me the truth. Look at me now, and tell me."

She tried to look and she tried to speak, but her glance faltered and fell before his and the words would not come. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She put up her hands in mute protest, but the protest was unavailing. His arms were about her, his kisses were upon her lips, and he was telling her the things which are told in times like these. And she struggled no longer, but permitted herself to listen, to believe, to accept, and to be swept away by the wonderful current of love and destiny against which she had fought so long.

But the struggle was not entirely over. She made one more effort.

"Oh, Crawford!" she cried a little later. "Oh, Crawford, dear, this is all wrong. It can't be. It mustn't be. Don't you see it mustn't? We have forgotten Uncle Zoeth. He doesn't know whose son you are. If he should learn, it would bring back the old story and the old trouble. He isn't well. The shock might kill him."

But Crawford merely smiled.