KENNETH GALT came back from Atlanta at the end of the week. John Dilk drove down, and brought him up from the station at dusk. Galt had just alighted at his front steps, and the carriage had gone round the house toward the stables in the rear, when he saw Margaret Dearing among the flowers on the lawn adjoining. Through an open window, in the glow of gas-light, he could see the supper-table waiting for him, and knew that his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, had all in readiness for his evening meal. He knew, too, that she was most particular about having his favorite dishes served while they were hot, and yet he could not resist the temptation to exchange greetings with this fair young girl whose genial friendship and interest in his affairs had always appealed to him. The prospects were very bright for success in his plan of building a railway from Stafford to the sea, and he was still young enough to want to warm himself in the smile of the girl's approval.

“Oh, you are back!” she said, cordially, as he strode across the grass, and lightly vaulted over the row of boxwood which divided the two properties. “Uncle Tom will be delighted.”

“Yes, and I am very tired,” he answered. He paused and shook her hand, experiencing a decided shock as he noticed the unexpected pallor of her face and the dark splotches beneath her eyes. “I was on my feet all morning in Atlanta. I made a speech to-day at a luncheon, and then had to ride up on a slow train.”

“And the railroad is almost a certainty?” she asked, forcing a wan smile. “You are about to have your dream realized?”

“Almost,” he answered, modestly. “I think we may count on most of the subscribers for the stock throughout the South, and the farmers who have agreed to donate the right of way through their lands still seem enthusiastic. The only thing we lack is the support of a certain group of New York capitalists who are to put up the bulk of the funds and are now considering our final proposition. If they should go in the road would be a certainty.”

“My uncle is sure they can be counted on,” the girl went on, sympathetically. “He declares no one but you could have won the confidence of all those prim, old-fashioned ladies and pious elders, who have never been willing to invest their savings before.”

Galt shrugged his shoulders and drew back somewhat into his habitual mantle of reserve. “If we do put it through,” he said, “they won't regret it. Thorough confidence in an enterprise like this is necessary, of course, and I am glad they trust me.”

“All Stafford was reading the articles in the Atlanta papers yesterday about it,” Margaret said. “Uncle says when it is settled beyond a doubt the town will give a torch-light procession in your honor.”

“There were many inaccuracies in the papers,” he informed her, as he stood wondering over her evident dejection. “Did you read the articles?”

“Did I? Twice—once for myself and again for Uncle. I am sure he had already been over them, but, like the child he is, he wanted to hear the glorious news coming from the lips of some one else. I didn't like the pictures of you, though—not a bit.”

“You didn't? Why?”

“Because they don't do you justice; they were so harsh and fierce. They made your mouth look—what shall I say?—cruel?—yes, cruel and utterly heartless. And we all know you are not so. Wynn says you have the greatest fondness for children of any man he knows, and surely that is a sign of a good heart.”

“There is one thing I am now showing an extravagant fondness for,” Galt said, with a cynical laugh, “and that is, hearing you sound praises that aren't deserved. So I am going to tear myself away from them and run in to supper.”

“Poor girl!” he mused, as he walked away. “She looks pale and troubled, and talks as if she were trying to hide something. She has altered, even in the last week. I wonder if she really cared for Fred Walton? Who knows? Women often like unworthy men. God knows, I ought to understand that.”

After supper Galt went up to his sumptuous quarters on the floor above, and, lighting a cigar, he threw himself into an easy-chair and began to smoke.

“Yes, I must see her to-night,” he said, almost aloud. “I can't wait longer. It has been more than a month now, and not a line from her. I am winning the fight of my life, and I want to see her glorious face light up as I tell her about it. She is the sweetest, dearest girl in the world. Her great dreamy eyes haunt me night and day. I love her, God knows I do. But it mustn't get out yet—not yet; not, at least, till my road is built. We have a right to our secret, the sweetest that ever a love-mad pair held between them. She trusts me, and for the present no one need dream of our intimacy. The last time I saw her the little darling had all sorts of fears in her dear little head, but such fancies are only natural. I'll kiss them away, once she is nestling in my arms. The dear little thing is jealous—actually jealous—of my success. She said once that she believed I would desert her if it would serve my ambition to do so. She doesn't know me. She has a wonderful brain, but she reads me wrongly.”

The hours went by. The old grandfather clock in the hall below struck nine and then ten, and he rose and slipped down the stairs into the grounds below. Stafford was a town which went early to bed as a rule, and Galt found a vast stillness all about him out under the mystically shimmering stars. Softly treading the grass and furtively looking about, he went down to a gate near his stables, passed through and closed it without sound. Again looking up the little street cautiously, he went on till he reached the rear gate of Mrs. Barry's cottage. Going in, he walked through the widow's vegetable garden till he stood behind the little coal-and-wood house not ten feet from the open window of Dora's room. Here he paused, holding his breath in suspense. There was a light in the room as from a low-burning gas-jet at the bureau in the corner, and against the white window-curtain he saw the shadow of some one bowed over a table. The outlines of the silhouette were familiar, and they, set his heart to beating rapidly. Picking up some small particles of coal, he shot them at the window from his closed hand with the nail of his thumb. Sometimes they would fall short of the mark, but now and then one would strike the glass and produce a faint clicking sound. The trick was successful, as it had been before. The crouching shadow straightened up, the distinct profile of Dora's face appeared for an instant, and then lost its exquisite outlines in a blur of black which elongated itself upward as the girl rose to her feet. The curtain was drawn, and Dora, fully dressed, peered out. Stepping into open view, Galt signalled with his hand for her to come out. He saw her shake her head excitedly and stand motionless.

He signalled again and again, showing his impatience by the growing rapidity of his gestures and the impassioned movement of his mute lips. He heard her sigh, and then she nodded resignedly and retreated into the room. Her light went out. She was coming; he knew she would join him if her mother was asleep. And yet that sigh! What could it mean from her who had always come so joyfully, so full of love and faith? Ah, he had it! The gentle girl, not having seen him for several weeks, was genuinely jealous of the weighty affairs which had recently absorbed so much of his attention. All the uproar over his prospective success in the papers, the graphic accounts of his high position, had made her fancy, in her artistic sensitiveness, that circumstances were separating them. Ah, yes, that was it! But he would set her right on that score, as he always had done. He would convince her that their sweet secret was their own, and assure her that it need not be long now before they could announce their love to the world. Where could he look for a better or a truer mate? The secret of their present, and perhaps imprudent, intimacy would never be known. But for the time being, of course, he could not think of marrying any one. Much depended, right now, on his remaining exactly as he was—the suave bachelor whom certain prim and accurate maiden ladies had intrusted with the management of their finances, and reserved a right to decide, as members of some churches do in the cases of their unmarried pastors, what manner of woman their paragon was to choose, if any, as his partner in life. They would be unanimous in their verdict against the artist's beautiful daughter, not being able to see her worth and charm as he could see them. And to announce at the present crisis that he had chosen such a wife would certainly be inadvisable. He had become their idol, and his judgment told him he must retain their good-will in all things—at least, till he was independent of their support.

There was a low, creaking sound from the rusty hinges of the rear door of the cottage, followed by profound stillness, and he knew she had paused on the steps to see if her mother would wake. Then he breathed in vast relief, for he saw her coming. She had thrown a light shawl over her head, and as she passed from under the intervening arbor of grape-vines and the moonlight fell upon her partly exposed face, he was struck by its pallor, and by the desperate gleam in the eyes so steadily fixed on him.

“Thank God, I see you at last, darling!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he held out his arms. But to his amazement she drew back, warding off his embrace with a hand that was firm, strong, and cold as ice.

“You must go—you must never come again!” she said, in a voice filled with suffering.

The little wood-house was between them and the cottage, and some tall trees bordering the little street threw a shadow over them.

“But, darling, what's the matter?” he cried. “What has changed you so remarkably? Why, little girl—”

“Do you mean, you haven't—haven't heard?” She clutched the shawl under her marble-like chin and stared at him, her pretty lips parted and quivering piteously.

“Heard what?” he asked. “I have heard nothing—certainly no bad news. I've been away for a week, and only came home this evening.”

She lowered her head, and stood silent and motionless. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently shook her.

“Tell me,” he urged, groping for an explanation of her agitation, “is your mother ill again? Is she worse?”

“No, it isn't that—God knows even that would be a blessing. Kenneth, I'm ruined!”

“You don't mean?—you can't mean?—” He stood aghast before her, quivering now from head to foot.

“Yes, there is no doubt of it. Mother suspected it, and was so miserable that I had to admit the truth. It almost drove her crazy. She was talking to me about it when that meddlesome woman, Mrs. Chumley, came in and overheard it. She lost no time in spreading the report broadcast over town. Everybody has known it for several days.”

“Oh, my God!” Galt pronounced the words in his throat. This thing, of all unexpected things, had burst upon him at the very crisis of his triumph, and it would ruin him—there was no denying that; it would ruin him! In his fancy he saw his hitherto irreproachable character torn to shreds by the men and women who, till now, had stood behind him. The dream of his life might be carried out some day, but not by a man of his stamp. He groaned aloud. For the moment it was impossible for him to show sympathy where sympathy most belonged. He stood as a man stands who loves life, and yet has been condemned to death. Love and the capacity for self-sacrifice in Kenneth Galt were best nourished by hope and happiness, and of these things he was now bereft.

“Well,” his quivering lips finally produced, “we must make the best of it. We've only done what millions before us have done for love of each other. And what do they say of me? I suppose they think I won't act the part of an honorable man; but, Dora darling—”

“Say of you?” she broke in, bitterly. “They have never mentioned your name. Not a soul—not even my mother—dreams that I ever met you in secret. You are the last human being on earth that would be—be accused. Oh, you are safe! And I'd die ten thousand lingering deaths rather than drag you into it! Oh no, you are absolutely safe. I know full well what such an exposure would mean to you.”

A sense of unaccountable lightness possessed him; a vague sort of relief seemed to hover over him; the blood packed in his heart by horror now began to flow warm and free. “They haven't mentioned—you say—You—didn't tell your mother—that I—?”

“No, I'd cut out my tongue rather than let her know. You told me when we last met that even a bare report of our engage—our love for each other right now would harm your plans. Do you think that I'd let a horror like this come up against you? Even if you declared it was true, I'd say it was a lie! I'd say I cared for some one else. They declare it was Fred Walton, anyway, because he left so suddenly. I've told them it wasn't—told them and told them, but they won't believe me. They may think what they please, but they sha'n't say it was you!”

“Fred Walton!” Galt's mind galloped on. “They blamed it on that reckless, devil-may-care fellow, and it would be like Dora's magnanimity to deny the truth for all time. But should he let her?” A storm of incongruous tenderness now swept over him as he stood in the coign of immunity she had preserved for him and regarded the sweet, stricken creature before him. He laughed aloud in sheer derision of the escape she was offering him, and for one blind instant he actually believed in his own manhood.

“Leave you?” he said, warmly, and he took her hands into his, and, although she firmly resisted, he drew her into his arms and tenderly kissed her cold, flower-like lips. “Let another man, and a scamp like Fred Walton, have his name coupled in that way with yours? Never! I want you, Dora. I'd be a miserable dog, even if I succeeded with my paltry enterprise by leaving you! No, I'll come here to-morrow and we'll be married, as we ought to have been months and months ago. Now, go to bed, and let me see roses on your pretty cheeks in the morning.”

“You are speaking without thought—without knowledge of yourself.” The girl sighed as she drew away from his embrace and forcibly put down his detaining hands. “You see, I know you, Kenneth, better than you know yourself. You love me in a way, I am sure; but when it was all over, and you'd paid the debt you think you owe me, you'd blame me for being the blight to your prospects that I would be. Listen! What is done is done. Because I am disgraced is no reason you should be. You are a man whose ambition is his life. Married to me, and hampered by the name I now bear, you'd not only fail in your present enterprise, but you would be held down to the end of life. Oh, I know you so well—so very well! The praise and adulation of the prominent men and women whose friendship you have are the very life-blood of your being. I've known you had this weakness for a long time, but I had to bear with it as a natural shortcoming.”

“How absurdly you talk!” he cried out, in dull, crushed admiration for such logic in one so young and frail. “But I assure you, Dora, I'll not listen to such silly stuff for a minute. You are going to be my wife. Do you hear me?—my wife! We will let the blamed railroad go. I'll tell General Sylvester in the morning that we are off for our honeymoon. Of course he'll drop me like a hot potato, but he may do it for all I care. You are more to me, darling, than he and all the trunk-lines in the world. Yes, I am coming for you to-morrow—to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock! Remember that—at three, sharp, and I'll—I'll bring a—a preacher and—everything necessary.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Dora said, firmly. “You think at this moment that you have the courage to do what you propose, but, Kenneth, you haven't—you simply haven't! I know you better than you know yourself. You will not come to-morrow nor any other day! I'll never see you again, nor do I want to. I had a kind of love for you that only a woman could understand; you have had quite another sort for me. You think yours is still alive, but it died of paltry fear, stifled by avarice; mine was a girlish dream. I am awake now. Leave me, and don't approach me again. I swear to you that your secret is safe.”

She moved away. He tried to stop her; but, with a warning finger on her lips, she eluded his grasp, and hurried into the house.