Olney Winthrop was detained away for four days on account of illness, but on the fifth he came again.

He was pale and haggard, and about the mouth there was a wistful expression that touched Carlita in the old, fond way. She went up to him and placed her hand upon his shoulder with a loving gesture.

"You have been ill," she said; "but I did not dream that it had been so bad. Why did you not let me come to you?"

"You would have come?"

"Can you ask?"

She looked pathetically into his eyes and allowed him to kiss her. It brought a flush to his pallid cheeks and a warm light to his worn eyes.

"I wonder if man was ever blessed with so sweet a love as I?" he asked, more of himself than of her, his voice low with emotion. "Carlita, if I should lose you, death, by any means whatever, would be a happy release. You love me, darling? Say it once again. It is not that I doubt, but only that I adore the sound of the words from your exquisite lips."

She shivered slightly, some of the bright color fading from the olive cheek.

"What is it?" he questioned, with tender solicitude.

"I have so often meant to tell you," she answered, her eyes not upon his, but fixed absently upon a distant object which yet was unseen, "but have not had the courage. It seems almost like stabbing a living thing to the heart to speak of it to you; and yet—and yet—"

"Tell me, dear heart. Is there anything with which you would not trust me?"

"It is only that I would not distress you. There is an old curse in the family; such a foolish thing, you will think, for nineteenth century people to believe in, and I don't—really I don't; and yet it makes my blood freeze in my veins sometimes when I remember it. It is the curse of Pocahontas, Olney. Have you heard what it is?"

"No."

"It descends to the dark girl child of each generation—the child that shows the trace of the Indian in her unfortunate veins. It is a curse put upon her love, that unhappiness, misery may follow the giving of her heart, and—Olney, what a fool I am to alarm you with this absurdity!"

He had started and grown a shade paler, then caught her hands in a grip that would have hurt her had she been more alive to physical emotions.

"Why do you listen to such things?" she continued, laughing half hysterically.

"It was so strange," he returned, huskily—"so strange that you should have mentioned it at this, of all times."

"Why?"

"Because I have received a summons which takes me away from you for a time—upon a perilous journey, perhaps."

"Where? Why?"

She was breathless, and returned the pressure of his hands with a strength of which she was unaware.

"To Mexico. My whole fortune is involved, and it is necessary that I should go."

She leaned toward him eagerly.

"Don't!" she whispered, hoarsely. "Something tells me that you will not return. I have a presentiment of evil—a horrible presentiment! It is the curse in reality. Don't go, Olney. My fortune will be enough for both."

But he had recovered himself, and smiled reassuringly, though feebly.

"We are foolish, my darling, both of us. I could not be a dependent upon the bounty of my wife. You must understand that, love. However much one we may be, I could never consent to feel myself a burden. Don't ask it of me, dearest. It would only make the temporary parting all the harder to bear, and you must have strength to bolster up my weakness."

"Oh, Olney!"

"If you had never heard of that foolish curse, you would think nothing of it; and if I had not been ill and weak mentally as well as physically, it would not have impressed me in the least. Remember that you yourself called it an absurdity."

"But you are not well enough to go—not strong enough to stand the test."

"The warmth of the climate will benefit me as nothing else could. I shall not die, Carlita. The thought of your love will give me every courage. Besides, I shall have one near who cares for me as a brother."

"You mean—"

"Leith."

She sat there for a moment, dumb, stunned, never raising her eyes, but Olney was watching her narrowly; then she drew a trifle closer to him, and with bowed head, whispered:

"There is—something that—I must tell you. It is about—about—"

"Leith?" he questioned, gently.

"Yes," she returned in a voice which he did not remember.

"I know," he said, softly.

"He told you?"

"Yes."

"And yet you—trust him?"

"As I would my brother," he returned, simply.

Her hand closed over his with a violence that made him wince.

"God help you!" she returned, heavily. "I loathe the man as I would a coiling reptile. There can no good come of it. Remember that I have told you this. God help you and help me, for the curse has fallen, as I felt that it must when I dared to love!"