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Rh ments, then he lifts his eyes, and oh heavens! I could cry aloud at the dull misery of their regard—the set, fixed stupor of his face, with not a glint of hope or peace or every-day indifference in it—and my face is radiant with my new found joy.

At first, although we are in his path, he does not seem to see us, and is about to pass on, when some gleam of consciousness comes across his face, his ordinary bearing comes back to him, his eyes brighten.

"George!" I say, stretching out my hand involuntarily; "George!"

He takes it as gently as though it were a flower.

"Is that you, Nell?" he asks, in his natural voice; and then he looks at Paul, and, by some subtle intuition, he knows: I feel it in the sudden shock that passes from his hand to mine.

"You have not introduced me to your friend," he says.

Stumblingly I go through the form of introduction between the man I love and the man who loves me, then, I do not know how it comes to pass, we go on, and George passes on his way alone.

It is Paul who speaks first.

"And that is the man who loved you, Nell!" he says, slowly, "whom I have sneered at, pitied—I! Heavens, that I should dare! Sweetheart, are you sure that you love me—not him? He is noble, unselfish, grand, as I never was, never could be. It is not too late now; do you repent of the bad bargain you have made?"

"I love you," I answer, clasping my arms, of my own free will, about his neck; "I love you, my darling; what is any man in the world to me but a shadow, save you?"

"What is any woman on earth, what was one ever?" he asks, peering into my face through the closing darkness, "compared with what you are to me, my love, my idol, my wife?"