She made a passionate gesture with her hand.  “Billy,” she said, and stopped, eyes flaming.

“You were right to break the engagement,” he said slowly, eyes on the ground.  “I suppose Mr. Waterbury told you who I was, and—­and, of course, you could only act as you did.”

She was silent, her face quivering.

“And you think that of me?  You would think it of me?  No, from the first I knew you were Garrison—­”

“Forgive me,” he inserted.

“I broke the engagement,” she added, “because conditions were changed—­with me.  My condition was no longer what it was when the engagement was made—­” She checked herself with an effort.

“I think I understand—­now,” he said, and admiration was in his eyes; “I know the track.  I should.”  He was speaking lifelessly, eyes on the ground.  “And I understand that you do not know—­all.”

“All?”

“Um-m-m.”  He looked up and faced her eyes, head held high.  “I am an adventurer,” he said slowly.  “A scoundrel, an impostor.  I am not—­Major Calvert’s nephew.”  And he watched her eyes; watched unflinchingly as they changed and changed again.  But he would not look away.

“I—­I think I will sit down, if you don’t mind,” she whispered, hand at throat.  She seated herself, as one in a maze, on a log by the wayside.  She looked up, a twisted little smile on her lips, as he stood above her.  “Won’t—­won’t you sit down and tell—­tell me all?”

He obeyed automatically, not striving to fathom the great charity of her silence.  And then he told all—­all.  Even as he had told that very good trainer and righteous friend, Dan Crimmins.  His voice was perfectly lifeless.  And the girl listened, lips clenched on teeth.

“And—­and that’s all,” he whispered.  “God knows it’s enough—­too much.”  He drew himself away as some unclean thing.

“All that, all that, and you only a boy,” whispered the girl, half to herself.  “You must not tell the major.  You must not,” she cried fiercely.

“I must,” he whispered.  “I will.”

“You must not.  You won’t.  You must go away, go away.  Wipe the slate clean,” she added tensely.  “You must not tell the major.  It must be broken to him gently, by degrees.  Boy, boy, don’t you know what it is to love; to have your heart twisted, broken, trampled?  You must not tell him.  It would kill.  I—­know.”  She crushed her hands in her lap.

“I’m a coward if I run,” he said.

“A murderer if you stay,” she answered.  “And Mr. Waterbury—­he will flay you—­keep you in the mire.  I know.  No, you must go, you must go.  Must have a chance for regeneration.”

“You are very kind—­very kind.  You do not say you loathe me.”  He arose abruptly, clenching his hands above his head in silent agony.

“No, I do not,” she whispered, leaning forward, hands gripping the log, eyes burning up into his face.  “I do not.  Because I can’t.  I can’t.  Because I love you, love you, love you.  Boy, boy, can’t you see?  Won’t you see?  I love you—­”