This
thing that he so wildly proposed was impossible--utterly, completely
impossible; but what was _not_ impossible, what was indeed certain
and sure and beyond any sort of question, was that she loved Johnny St.
Leath with all her heart and soul, and would so love him until the day of
her death. Life could never be purposeless nor mean nor empty for her
again, while she had that treasure to carry about with her in her heart.
Meanwhile she could not look at him and doubt but that, for the moment at
any rate, he loved her--and there was something simple and direct about
Johnny as there was about his dog Andrew, that made his words, few and
clumsy though they might be, most strangely convincing.
So, almost dizzy with happiness, she climbed the stair behind the Gallery
and thought that she would escape for a moment into the little room where
Johnny had proposed to her, and sit there and grow calm. She looked in.
Some one was there. A man sitting by himself and staring in front of him.
She saw at once that he was in some great trouble. His hands were
clenched, his face puckered and set with pain.
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