"The letter was to Rossland." There was no responsive gladness in her eyes.

"Better that it were true, and all that _is_ true were false," she said in a quiet, hopeless voice.

"I would almost give my life to be no more than what those words implied, dishonest, a spy, a criminal of a sort; almost any alternative would I accept in place of what I actually am.

Do you begin to understand ?" "I am afraid--I can not." Even as he persisted in denial, the pain which had grown like velvety dew in her eyes clutched at his heart, and he felt dread of what lay behind it.

"I understand--only--that I am glad you are here, more glad than yesterday, or this morning, or an hour ago." She bowed her head, so that the bright light of day made a radiance of rich color in her hair, and he saw the sudden tremble of the shining lashes that lay against her cheeks; and then, quickly, she caught her breath, and her hands grew steady in her lap.
"Would you mind--if I asked you first--to tell me _your_ story of John Graham ?" she spoke softly.