His brain was in a wild whirl--the glitter of the stalactite cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work, there was nothing any more--no universe, no existence--nothing but love, love, love, beating strong hammer-strokes through every fibre of his frame.

He glanced up, and saw that the slowly retreating forms of his friends had nearly reached the outer opening of the cavern.

Once there, they would look back and-- "Quick, Thelma!" and his warm breath touched her cheek.

"My darling! my love! if you are not angry,--kiss me! I shall understand." She hesitated.

To Philip that instant of hesitation seemed a cycle of slow revolving years.