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"It is not ive," she said

"It is his?"

"Yes, Monsieur," she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity,

her madness "It is his"

"And it cannot be

"Never?" And, suddenly reaching forward, he gripped her wrist in an iron

grasp There was passion in his tone His eyes burned her

Whether it was that set her on another track, or pure despair, or the cry

in her ears of little children and of helpless wo in a

moment inspired her, flashed in her eyes and altered her voice She

raised her head and looked him firmly in the face

"What," she said, "do you mean by love?"

"You!" he answered brutally

"Then--it may be, Monsieur," she returned "There is a way if you will"

"A way!"

"If you will!"

As she spoke she rose slowly to her feet; for in his surprise he had

released her wrist He rose with her, and they stood confronting one

another on the strip of grass between the river and the poplars

"If I will?" His form seemed to dilate, his eyes devoured her "If I

will?"

"Yes," she replied "If you will give me the letters that are in your