Columbine swept her hand from her eyes with a gesture of utter surrender.

“Wilson, I’m ashamed—­and sad—­and gloriously happy,” she said, with swift breathlessness.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of—­of something I have to tell you,” she whispered.

“What is that?”

She bent over him.

“Can’t you guess?”

He turned pale, and his eyes burned with intense fire.

“I won’t guess ...  I daren’t guess.”

“It’s something that’s been true for years—­forever, it seems—­something I never dreamed of till last night,” she went on, softly.

“Collie!” he cried.  “Don’t torture me!”

“Do you remember long ago—­when we quarreled so dreadfully—­because you kissed me?” she asked.

“Do you think I could kiss you—­and live to forget?”

“I love you!” she whispered, shyly, feeling the hot blood burn her.

That whisper transformed Wilson Moore.  His arm flashed round her neck and pulled her face down to his, and, holding her in a close embrace, he kissed her lips and cheeks and wet eyes, and then again her lips, passionately and tenderly.

Then he pressed her head down upon his breast.

“My God!  I can’t believe!  Say it again!” he cried, hoarsely.

Columbine buried her flaming face in the blanket covering him, and her hands clutched it tightly.  The wildness of his joy, the strange strength and power of his kisses, utterly changed her.  Upon his breast she lay, without desire to lift her face.  All seemed different, wilder, as she responded to his appeal:  “Yes, I love you!  Oh, I love—­love—­love you!”

“Dearest!...  Lift your face....  It’s true now.  I know.  It’s proved.  But let me look at you.”

Columbine lifted herself as best she could.  But she was blinded by tears and choked with utterance that would not come, and in the grip of a shuddering emotion that was realization of loss in a moment when she learned the supreme and imperious sweetness of love.

“Kiss me, Columbine,” he demanded.

Through blurred eyes she saw his face, white and rapt, and she bent to it, meeting his lips with her first kiss which was her last.

“Again, Collie—­again!” he begged.

“No—­no more,” she whispered, very low, and encircling his neck with her arms she hid her face and held him convulsively, and stifled the sobs that shook her.

Then Moore was silent, holding her with his free hand, breathing hard, and slowly quieting down.  Columbine felt then that he knew that there was something terribly wrong, and that perhaps he dared not voice his fear.  At any rate, he silently held her, waiting.  That silent wait grew unendurable for Columbine.  She wanted to prolong this moment that was to be all she could ever surrender.  But she dared not do so, for she knew if he ever kissed her again her duty to Belllounds would vanish like mist in the sun.