“Water!” whispered Steele.

She gave him a drink.  Sally came with the scarf and veil, and then she backed away to the stone, and sat there.  The sight of blood had made her a little pale and weak.  Miss Sampson’s hands trembled and her tears still fell, but neither interfered with her tender and skillful dressing of that bullet wound.

Steele certainly said a lot of crazy things.  “But why’d you come—­why’re you so good—­when you don’t love me?”

“Oh, but—­I do—­love you,” whispered Miss Sampson brokenly.

“How do I know?”

“I am here.  I tell you.”

There was a silence, during which she kept on bathing his head, and he kept on watching her.  “Diane!” he broke out suddenly.

“Yes—­yes.”

“That won’t stop the pain in my head.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

“Kiss me—­that will,” he whispered.  She obeyed as a child might have, and kissed his damp forehead close to the red furrow where the bullet cut.

“Not there,” Steele whispered.

Then blindly, as if drawn by a magnet, she bent to his lips.  I could not turn away my head, though my instincts were delicate enough.  I believe that kiss was the first kiss of love for both Diane Sampson and Vaughn Steele.  It was so strange and so long, and somehow beautiful.  Steele looked rapt.  I could only see the side of Diane’s face, and that was white, like snow.  After she raised her head she seemed unable, for a moment, to take up her task where it had been broken off, and Steele lay as if he really were dead.  Here I got up, and seating myself beside Sally, I put an arm around her.  “Sally dear, there are others,” I said.

“Oh, Russ—­what’s to come of it all?” she faltered, and then she broke down and began to cry softly.  I would have been only too glad to tell her what hung in the balance, one way or another, had I known.  But surely, catastrophe!  Then I heard Steele’s voice again and its huskiness, its different tone, made me fearful, made me strain my ears when I tried, or thought I tried, not to listen.

“Diane, you know how hard my duty is, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know—­I think I know.”

“You’ve guessed—­about your father?”

“I’ve seen all along you must clash.  But it needn’t be so bad.  If I can only bring you two together—­Ah! please don’t speak any more.  You’re excited now, just not yourself.”

“No, listen.  We must clash, your father and I. Diane, he’s not—­”

“Not what he seems!  Oh, I know, to my sorrow.”

“What do you know?” She seemed drawn by a will stronger than her own.  “To my shame I know.  He has been greedy, crafty, unscrupulous—­dishonest.”

“Diane, if he were only that!  That wouldn’t make my duty torture.  That wouldn’t ruin your life.  Dear, sweet girl, forgive me—­your father’s—­”

“Hush, Vaughn.  You’re growing excited.  It will not do.  Please—­please—­”