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 lips; her nails cut into her palms…. She found herself at the door—found the urge of her heart irresistible…. She had no longer the will nor the desire to hold herself back…. Down the stairs she tottered, stood swaying in the parlor door.

“Angus!…” she cried. “Angus!…”

He was at her side in an instant, found himself there as though by magic, and she clung to him, clutching his coat with her fingers, pressing her face against his breast, sobbing his name again and again. She saw no one but Angus, was conscious of no other presence—and it was so with Angus also…. He drew her gently outside with the instinct of lovers to find dusky seclusion—outside into the shadows of the garden.

Angus was speechless as he was always speechless in moments when from other men would have come a torrent of words. He was experiencing a miracle and the marvel of it held him still and awe-struck. Lydia had come to him—to him! He held her close, tenderly, unbelievingly, and waited. It was she who spoke first.

“I heard your voice…. I had to come. I couldn’t—bear it any longer.” She lifted her face, a pitiful, tear-streaked face which had not yet found how to reflect the happiness which was welling upward from her heart—and Angus