The Angel’s tear-stained face flashed into dazzling beauty.  A half-hysterical little laugh broke from her heart and bubbled over her lips.

“Oh, Freckles, forgive me!” she cried.  “I’ve been through so much that I’m scarcely myself, or I wouldn’t be here bothering you when you should be sleeping.  Of course you couldn’t!  I knew it all the time!  I was just scared!  I was forgetting that you were you!  You’re too good a knight to remember a thing like that.  Of course you are!  And when you don’t remember, why, then it’s the same as if it never happened.  I was almost killed because I’d gone and spoiled everything, but now it will be all right.  Now you can go on and do things like other men, and I can have some flowers, and letters, and my sweetheart coming, and when you are sure, why, then you can tell me things, can’t you?  Oh, Freckles, I’m so glad!  Oh, I’m so happy!  It’s dear of you not to remember, Freckles; perfectly dear!  It’s no wonder I love you so.  The wonder would be if I did not.  Oh, I should like to know how I’m ever going to make you understand how much I love you!”

Pillow and all, she caught him to her breast one long second; then she was gone.

Freckles lay dazed with astonishment.  At last his amazed eyes searched the room for something approaching the human to which he could appeal, and falling on his mother’s portrait, he set it before him.

“For the love of life!  Me little mother,” he panted, “did you hear that?  Did you hear it!  Tell me, am I living, or am I dead and all heaven come true this minute?  Did you hear it?”

He shook the frame in his impatience at receiving no answer.

“You are only a pictured face,” he said at last, “and of course you can’t talk; but the soul of you must be somewhere, and surely in this hour you are close enough to be hearing.  Tell me, did you hear that?  I can’t ever be telling a living soul; but darling little mother, who gave your life for mine, I can always be talking of it to you!  Every day we’ll talk it over and try to understand the miracle of it.  Tell me, are all women like that?  Were you like me Swamp Angel?  If you were, then I’m understanding why me father followed across the ocean and went into the fire.”

CHAPTER XX

Wherein Freckles returns to the Limberlost, and Lord O’More Sails for Ireland Without Him

Freckles’ voice ceased, his eyes closed, and his head rolled back from exhaustion.  Later in the day he insisted on seeing Lord and Lady O’More, but he fainted before the resemblance of another man to him, and gave all of his friends a terrible fright.

The next morning, the Man of Affairs, with a heart filled with misgivings, undertook the interview on which Freckles insisted.  His fears were without cause.  Freckles was the soul of honor and simplicity.

“Have they been telling you what’s come to me?” he asked without even waiting for a greeting.