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 never mended that quarrel—yet Cynthia and he had loved. Too much had passed between them to put them finally apart. And now, as Ruth felt his arms enfolding her, his lips on hers, and his breath whispering to her his passionate love, she knew that Cynthia could not have forbidden this.

He took Ruth's struggle as meant to tempt his strength and he laughed joyously as, very gently, he overpowered her. She tried to cease to struggle; she tried to laugh as Cynthia would have laughed; but she could not. "Don't!" she found herself resisting. "Don't!"

"Oh! I hurt you, dearest?"

"Yes," she said; though he had not. And remorsefully and with anxious endearments, he let her go.

"You've heard about Charles?" he asked.

"I've just come from him."

"He's—the same?"

"Yes."

She stood gasping against the wall of a building, entirely in the shadow herself, with the little light which reached them showing her his face. Ruth liked that face; and she liked the girl whom she played at being—that Cynthia whose identity she was carrying on, but about whom she yet knew so little—for having loved this man. George Byrne had been clean-living; he was strong and eager, but gentle, too. He had high thoughts and resolute ideals. These he had told her in those letters which had come; but Ruth had not embodied them in him till now. She was recovering from the offense of having anyone's arms but Gerry's about her. She was not conscious of thinking of Gerry that way; only, his arms had been