I'll write to you." She moved from him; Hilliard followed.

At a distance of half-a-dozen yards, just as he was about to address her again, she stopped and spoke-- "You hate to hear me talk of 'gratitude.' I have always meant by it less than you thought.

I was grateful for the money, not for anything else.

When you took me away, perhaps it was the unkindest thing you could have done." An unwonted vehemence shook her voice.

Her muscles were tense; she stood in an attitude of rebellious pride.
"If I had been true to myself then----But it isn't too late.