would leave him, even if it destroyed her, heart and soul.  He was sure of that.  For years she had suffered her heart to be ground out of her because of the “bit of madness” that was in her, because of that earlier tragedy in her life—­and her promise, her pledge to her father, her God, and herself.  Without arguing a possible change in her because of her love for him, John Aldous accepted these things.  He believed that if he told Joanne the truth he would lose her.

His determination not to tell her, to keep from her the secret of the grave and the fact that Mortimer FitzHugh was alive, grew stronger in him with each breath that he drew.  He believed that it was the right thing to do, that it was the honourable and the only thing to do.  Now that the first shock was over, he did not feel that he had lost Joanne, or that there was a very great danger of losing her.  For a moment it occurred to him that he might turn the law upon Culver Rann, and in the same breath he laughed at this absurdity.  The law could not help him.  He alone could work out his own and Joanne’s salvation.  And what was to happen must happen very soon—­up in the mountains.  When it was all over, and he returned, he would tell Joanne.

His heart beat more quickly as he finished dressing.  In a few minutes more he would be with Joanne, and in spite of what had happened, and what might happen, he was happy.  Yesterday he had dreamed.  To-day was reality—­and it was a glorious reality.  Joanne belonged to him.  She loved him.  She was his wife, and when he went to her it was with the feeling that only a serpent lay in the path of their paradise—­a serpent which he would crush with as little compunction as that serpent would have destroyed her.  Utterly and remorselessly his mind was made up.

The Blacktons’ supper hour was five-thirty, and he was a quarter of an hour late when he tapped at Joanne’s door.  He felt the warmth of a strange and delightful embarrassment flushing his face as the door opened, and she stood before him.  In her face, too, was a telltale riot of colour which the deep tan partly concealed in his own.

“I—­I am a little late, am I not, Joanne?” he asked.

“You are, sir.  If you have taken all this time dressing you are worse than a woman.  I have been waiting fifteen minutes!”

“Old Donald came to see me,” he apologized.  “Joanne——­”

“You mustn’t, John!” she expostulated in a whisper.  “My face is afire now!  You mustn’t kiss me again—­until after supper——­”

“Only once,” he pleaded.

“If you will promise—­just once——­”

A moment later she gasped: 

“Five times!  John Aldous, I will never believe you again as long as I live!”

They went down to the Blacktons, and Peggy and Paul, who were busy over some growing geraniums in the dining-room window, faced about with a forced and incongruous appearance of total oblivion to everything that had happened.  It lasted less than ten seconds.  Joanne’s lips quivered.  Aldous saw the two little dimples at the corners of her mouth fighting to keep themselves out of sight—­and then he looked at Peggy.  Blackton could stand it no longer, and grinned broadly.