LITMIR.BIZ

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"About six months ago, I think it was in January, a young chap in a fur overcoat drifted into this old stone barn and took a turn around it. He saw the treasure and the fake relics and the white marble French gentleman trying to get out of his coffin. And he didn't care a hang about any of 'em until he saw you. Then he began to take notice. The next day he came back and you sold him a little red guidebook that told all about the twenty-five chapels and the seven hundred and ninety-two saints. No, seven hundred and ninety-three, for there was one saint with wonderful eyes and glorious hair and——"

      "Please don't," she murmured.

      "Why not? You don't know which saint I was talking about. It was My Lady of the Candles. She had the most beautiful hands in the world, and all day long she sat at a table making stitches on cloth of gold. Which was bad for her eyes, by the way."

      "Ah, yes!" sighed Alice.

      "There are all kinds of miracles in Notre-Dame," he went on playfully, "but the greatest miracle is how this saint with the eyes and the hands and the hair ever dropped down at that little table. Nobody could explain it, so the young fellow with the fur overcoat kept coming back and coming back to see if he could figure it out. Only soon he came without his overcoat."

      "In bitter cold weather," she said reproachfully.

      "He was pretty blue that day, wasn't he? Dead sore on the game. Money all blown in, overcoat up the spout, nothing ahead, and a whole year of—of damned foolishness behind. Excuse me, but that's what it was. Well, he blew in that day and—he walked over to where you were sitting, you darling little saint!"

      "No, no," murmured Alice, "not a saint, only a poor girl who saw you were unhappy and—and was sorry."

      Their eyes met tenderly, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Kittredge went on unsteadily: "Anyhow you were kind to me, and I opened up a little. I told you a few things, and—when I went away I felt more like a man. I said to myself: 'Lloyd Kittredge, if you're any good you'll cut out this thing that's been raising hell with you'—excuse me, but that's what it was—'and you'll make a new start, right now.' And I did it. There's a lot you don't know, but you can bet all your rosaries and relics that I've made a fair fight since then. I've worked and—been decent and—I did it all for you." His voice was vibrant now with passion; he caught her hand in his and repeated the words, leaning closer, so that she felt his warm breath on her cheek. "All for you. You know that, don't you, Alice?"

      What a moment for a girl whose whole soul was quivering with fondness! What a proud, beautiful moment! He loved her, he loved her! Yet she drew her hand away and forced herself to say, as if reprovingly: "You mustn't do that!"

      He looked at her in surprise, and then, with challenging directness: "Why not?"

      "Because I cannot be what you—what you want me to be," she answered, looking down.

      "I want you to be my wife."

      "I know."

      "And—and you refuse me?"

      For a moment she did not speak. Then slowly she nodded, as if pronouncing her own doom.

      "Alice," he cried, "look up here! You don't mean it. Say it isn't true."

      She lifted her eyes bravely and faced him. "It is true, Lloyd; I can never be your wife."

      "But why? Why?"

      "I—I cannot tell you," she faltered.

      He was about to speak impatiently, but before her evident distress he checked the words and asked gently: "Is it something against me?"

      "Oh, no!" she answered quickly.

      "Sure? Isn't it something you've heard that I've done or—or not done? Don't be afraid to hurt my feelings. I'll make a clean breast of it all, if you say so. God knows I was a fool, but I've kept straight since I knew you, I'll swear to that."

      "I believe you, dear."

      "You believe me, you call me 'dear,' you look at me out of those wonderful eyes as if you cared for me."

      "I do, I do," she murmured.

      "You care for me, and yet you turn me down," he said bitterly. "It reminds me of a verse I read," and drawing a small volume from his pocket he turned the pages quickly. "Ah, here it is," and he marked some lines with a pencil. "There!"

      Alice took the volume and began to read in a low voice:

      "Je n'aimais qu'elle au monde, et vivre un jour sans elle

       Me semblait un destin plus affreux que la mort.

       Je me souviens pourtant qu'en cette nuit cruelle

       Pour briser mon lien je fis un long effort.

       Je la nommai cent fois perfide et déloyale,

       Je comptai tous les maux qu'elle m'avait causés."

      She stopped suddenly, her eyes full of pain.

      "You don't think that, you can't think that of me?" she pleaded.

      "I'd rather think you a coquette than—" Again he checked himself at the sight of her trouble. He could not speak harshly to her.

      "You dear child," he went on tenderly. "I'll never believe any ill of you, never. I won't even ask your reasons; but I want some encouragement, something to work for. I've got to have it. Just let me go on hoping; say that in six months or—or even a year you will be my own sweetheart—promise me that and I'll wait patiently. Can't you promise me that?"

      But again she shook her head, while her eyes filled slowly with tears.

      And now his face darkened. "Then you will never be my wife? Never? No matter what I do or how long I wait? Is that it?"

      "That's it," she repeated with a little sob.

      Kittredge rose, eying her sternly. "I understand," he said, "or rather I don't understand; but there's no use talking any more. I'll take my medicine and—good-by."

      She looked at him in frightened supplication. "You won't leave me? Lloyd, you won't leave me?"

      He laughed harshly. "What do you think I am? A jumping jack for you to pull a string and make me dance? Well, I guess not. Leave you? Of course I'll leave you. I wish I had never seen you; I'm sorry I ever came inside this blooming church!"

      "Oh!" she gasped, in sudden pain.

      "You don't play fair," he went on recklessly. "You haven't played fair at all. You knew I loved you, and—you led me on, and—this is the end of it."

      "No," she cried, stung by his words, "it's not the end of it. I won't be judged like that. I have played fair with you. If I hadn't I would have accepted you, for I love you, Lloyd, I love you with all my heart!"

      "I like the way you show it," he answered, unrelenting.

      "Haven't I helped you all these months? Isn't my friendship something?"

      He shook his head. "It isn't enough for me."

      "Then how about me, if I want your friendship, if I'm hungry for it, if it's all I have in life? How about that, Lloyd?" Under their dark lashes her violet eyes were burning on him, but he hardened his heart to their pleading.

      "It sounds well, but there's no sense in it. I can't stand for this let-me-be-a-sister-to-you game, and I won't."

      He turned away impatiently and glanced at his watch.

      "Lloyd," she said gently, "come to the house to-night."

      He shook his head. "Got an appointment."

      "An appointment?"

      "Yes, a banquet."

      She looked at him in surprise. "You didn't tell me!"

      "No."

      She

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