Beth Norvell

She tantalized, tempted him even while she thus openly renounced. He

struggled madly with an almost overmastering desire to burst forth in

strenuous denial, to lay his whole life unreservedly at her feet. Yet

something within the girl's resolute face steadied him, made him feel

her decision as unchangeable.

"Beth--you--you will not listen?"

"No--not to another word."

"You do not believe me?"

He marked the quick restraining pressure of her lips, the tumultuous

rise and fall of her breast.

"Yes, I believe you," she admitted, almost wearily. "You mean it--now;

but--but it is impossible. I wish you to go."

An instant Winston stood looking straight into those dark, glowing

eyes, and all his inherited strength of manhood came trooping back to

aid him. He comprehended in that moment of intense resolution that

this woman had become the whole world to him. That one fact never

would change. It came over him as a distinct revelation untinged by

either despair or hope. It was merely an unalterable truth, which he

must henceforth face as fate willed. He was of fighting blood, and the

seeming obstacles in the way of success did not dismay; they merely

served to inspire him to greater efforts.

"Unfortunately, I am not at present free to go," he replied, more

quietly, "for the reason that I have already accepted some professional

work here. However, I agree not to trouble you again with my presence

until--"

He paused in uncertainty as to his next word.

"What?"

"You give me welcome."

She extended her hand.

"You certainly speak with sufficient confidence."

"'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,'" he quoted lightly; "and I

herewith announce myself a firm believer in miracles."

"Then your faith is about to be put to a most severe test."

"I welcome that. Yet, if parting is insisted upon, we can, at least,

remain friends. You certainly do not hold my words against me?"

The flush, although fainter, again crept into the clear cheeks, and her

eyes fell before this questioning.

"No true woman ever remains wholly indifferent," she acknowledged with

swift frankness, "or neglects to think kindly in her secret heart of

any one who has told her that story; and I am a woman."

For a brief moment her hand rested warm and throbbing within his own,

and there passed an electric flash of the eyes between them. Then she

withdrew her fingers and opened the door.

"Good-bye," she whispered, the word lingering like perfume, and

vanished, even as he took a step toward her.