“Do you think you will ever manage to forgive me?” he said.

She turned swiftly from the arm that encircled her, and impulsively she put her hands upon his shoulders, offering him her lips.  “Oh, I don’t—­know—­what—­to say,” she said, brokenly.

He bent and gravely kissed her.  “My dear, there is nothing to be said so far as I am concerned,” he said.  “If you are happy, I am satisfied.”

It was briefly spoken, but it went straight to her heart.  She clung to him for a moment without words, and that was all the thanks she ever offered him.  For there was nothing to be said.

* * * * *

Very late on the evening of that wonderful day she sat with Bill Warden on the edge of a rock overlooking a fertile valley of many waters in the Blue Mountains, and heard, with her hand in his the amazing story of the past few days, which had seemed to her so curiously dream-like.

“I fought hard against marrying you,” Bill told her, with the smile she had remembered for so long.  “But he had me at every turn—­simply rolled me out and wiped the ground with me.  Said he’d clap me into prison if I didn’t, and when I said ‘All right’ to that, he turned on me like a tiger and asked if I wanted to break your heart.  Oh, he made me feel a ten-times swab, I can tell you.  And when I said I didn’t want you to marry an uncaught criminal, he just looked me over and said, ’You’ve sown your wild oats.  As your partner, I am sponsor for your respectability.’  I knew what that meant, knew he’d stand by me through thick and thin, whatever turned up.  It was the official seal with a vengeance, for what Fletcher Hill says goes in these parts.  But it went against the grain, little new chum.  It made me sick with myself.  I hated playing his game against himself.  It was the vilest thing I ever did.  I couldn’t have done it—­except for you.”

The little hand that held his tightened.  She leaned her cheek against his shoulder.  “Shall I tell you something?” she whispered.  “I couldn’t have done it either—­except for—­you.”

His arm clasped her.  “I’m such a poor sort of creature, darling,” he said “I’ll work for you—­live for you—­die for you.  But I shall never be worthy of you.”

She lifted her face to his in the gathering darkness.  “Dear love,” she said, “do you remember how—­once—­you asked me to treat you—­without prejudice?  But I never have—­and I don’t believe I ever shall.  Fletcher Hill is right to trust you.  He is a judge of men.  But I—­I am only the woman who loves you, and—­somehow—­whichever way I take you—­I’m always prejudiced—­in your favour.”

The low words ended against his lips.  He kissed her closely, passionately.  “My little chum,” he said, “I will be worthy—­I will be worthy—­so help me God!”

He was near to tears as he uttered his oath; but presently, when he turned back her sleeve to kiss the place where first his lips had lingered, they laughed together—­the tender laughter of lovers in the happy morning-time of life.