rose up out of the dust of it a thing new-born and tangible for him.  Slowly his eyes turned to the beautiful head bowed in its attitude of prayer.  The blood began to surge back into his heart.  His hands unclenched.  She had told him that he would hate her, that he would want to leave her when he heard the story of her despair.  And instead of that he wanted to kneel beside her now and take her close in his arms, and whisper to her that the sun had not set for them, but that it had only begun to rise.

And then, as he took a step toward her, there flashed through his brain like a disturbing warning the words with which she had told him that he would never know the real cause of her grief.  “You may guess, but you would not guess the truth if you lived A thousand years.”  And could this that he had heard, and this that he looked upon be anything but the truth?  Another step and he was at her side.  For a moment all barriers were swept from between them.  She did not resist him as he clasped her close to his breast.  He kissed her upturned face again and again, and his voice kept whispering:  “I love you, my Josephine—­I love you—­I love you—­”

Suddenly there came to them sounds from out of the night.  A door opened, and through the hall there came the great, rumbling voice of a man, half laughter, half shout; and then there were other voices, the slamming of the door, and the voice again, this time in a roar that reached to the farthest walls of Adare House.

“Ho, Mignonne—­Ma Josephine!”

And Philip held Josephine still closer and whispered: 

“I love you!”

CHAPTER TEN

Not until the sound of approaching steps grew near did Josephine make an effort to free herself from Philip’s arms.  Unresisting she had given him her lips to kiss; for one rapturous moment he had felt the pressure of her arms about his shoulders; in the blue depths of her eyes he had caught the flash of wonderment and disbelief, and then the deeper, tenderer glow of her surrender to him.  In this moment he forgot everything except that she had bared her secret to him, and in baring it had given herself to him.  Even as her hands pressed now against his breast he kissed her lips again, and his arms tightened about her.

“They are coming to the door, Philip,” she panted, straining against him.  “We must not be found like this!”

The voice was booming in the hall again, calling her name, and in a moment Philip was on his feet raising Josephine to him.  Her face still was white.  Her eyes were still on the verge of fear, and as the steps came nearer he brushed back the warm masses of her hair and whispered for the twentieth time, as if the words must convince her:  “I love you!” He slipped an arm about her waist, and Josephine’s fingers nervously caught his hand.