passion, but feared her answer. He had studied her every word and tone and look and hand-pressure since he had known her. He was sure she loved him. And yet he was not sure. She was so skilled in the science of self defence, so subtle a mistress of all the arts of polite society in which the soul's deepest secrets are hid from the world, he was paralysed now as the moment drew near. He put it off another day and gave himself up to the pure delight of her face and form and voice and presence.
That evening when she entered the home her mother caught her hand and softly whispered, "Did he court you to-day, Sallie?"
She shook her head smilingly. "No, but I think he will to-morrow."
St. Clare was sitting on his veranda awaiting Gaston's return.
"What luck, old boy?" he eagerly asked.
"Couldn't say a word. I'll do it to-morrow or die."
"Shake hands partner. I've been there."
"Bob, it's a serious thing to run up against a little answer 'yes' or 'no,' that means life or death."
"Feel like you'd rather live on hope a while, and let things drift, don't you?"
"Exactly, I think I can understand for the first time in my life that awful look in a prisoner's face on trial for his life, when he watches the lips of the foreman of the jury to catch the first letter of the verdict. I used to think that an interesting psychological study. By George, I feel I am his brother now."
The next day was perfect. The warm life-giving sun of June was tempered by breezes that swept fresh and invigorating over the earth that had been drenched with showers in the night. The woods were ringing with the chorus of feathered throats chanting the old oratorio of
