Philip did not urge.  He asked no questions that might be embarrassing.  He knew, after the third week had passed, that Josephine could no longer be unconscious of his love, even though the mystery of Peter God restrained him from making a declaration of it.  There was not a day in the week that they did not see each other.  They rode together.  The three frequently dined together.  And still more frequently they passed the evenings in the McCloud apartments.  Philip had been correct in his guess—­they were from Montreal.  Beyond that fact he learned little.

As their acquaintance became closer and as Josephine saw in Philip more and more of that something which he had not spoken, a change developed in her.  At first it puzzled and then alarmed him.  At times she seemed almost frightened.  One evening, when his love all but trembled on his lips, she turned suddenly white.

It was the middle of July before the words came from him at last.  In two or three weeks he was starting for the North.  It was evening, and they were alone in the big room, with the cool breeze from the lake drifting in upon them.  He made no effort to touch her as he told her of his love, but when he had done, she knew that a strong man had laid his heart and his soul at her feet.

He had never seen her whiter.  Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.  There was a silence in which he did not breathe.  Her answer came so low that he leaned forward to hear.

“I am sorry,” she said.  “It is my fault—­that you love me.  I knew.  And yet I let you come again and again.  I have done wrong.  It is not fair—­now—­for me to tell you to go—­without a chance.  You—­would want me if I did not love you?  You would marry me if I did not love you?”

His heart pounded.  He forgot everything but that he loved this woman with a love beyond his power to reason.

“I don’t think that I could live without you now, Josephine,” he cried in a low voice.  “And I swear to make you love me.  It must come.  It is inconceivable that I cannot make you love me—­loving you as I do.”

She looked at him clearly now.  She seemed suddenly to become tense and vibrant with a new and wonderful strength.

“I must be fair with you,” she said.  “You are a man whose love most women would be proud to possess.  And yet—­it is not in my power to accept that love, or give myself to you.  There is another to whom you must go.”

“And that is—­”

“Peter God!”

It was she who leaned forward now, her eyes burning, her bosom rising and falling with the quickness of her breath.

“You must go to Peter God,” she said.  “You must take a letter to him—­from me.  And it will be for him—­for Peter God—­to say whether I am to be your wife.  You are honorable.  You will be fair with me.  You will take the letter to him.  And I will be fair with you.  I will be your wife, I will try hard to care for you—­if Peter God—­says—­”