laid a hand on Dolores' arm.

"I will watch," she said. "If I hear anything, I will warn you, and you
can go into the small room again."

She went out almost before either of them could thank her. They had,
indeed, forgotten her presence in the room, being accustomed to her
being near them; but she could no longer bear to stay, listening to
their loving words that made her loneliness so very dark. And now, too,
she had memories of her own, which she would keep secret to the end of
her life,--beautiful and happy recollections of that sweet moment when
the man that seemed dead had breathed and had clasped her in his arms,
taking her for the other, and had kissed her as he would have kissed the
one he loved. She knew at last what a kiss might be, and that was much;
but she knew also what it was to kneel by her dead love and to feel his
life come back, breath by breath and beat by beat, till he was all
alive; and few women have felt that or can guess how great it is to
feel. It was better to go out into the dark and listen, lest any one
should disturb the two, than to let her memories of short happiness be
marred by hearing words that were not meant for her.

"She found you?" asked Dolores, when she was gone.

"Yes, she found me. You had gone down, she said, to try and save your
father. He is safe now!" he laughed.

"She found you alive." Dolores lingered on the words. "I never envied
her before, I think; and it is not because if I had stayed I should have
suffered less, dear." She put up her hands upon his shoulders again. "It
is not for that, but to have thought you dead and to have seen you grow