her. The Dyak was not yet born who should rend her from him.

He fondled her hair and gently rubbed her cheek with his rough fingers.
The sudden sense of ownership of this fair woman was entrancing. It
almost bewildered him to find Iris nestling close, clinging to him in
utter confidence and trust.

"But I knew, I knew," she murmured. "You betrayed yourself so many
times. You wrote your secret to me, and, though you did not tell me, I
found your dear words on the sands, and have treasured them next my
heart."

What girlish romance was this? He held her away gingerly, just so far
that he could look into her eyes.

"Oh, it is true, quite true," she cried, drawing the locket from her
neck. "Don't you recognize your own handwriting, or were you not
certain, just then, that you really did love me?"

Dear, dear! How often would she repeat that wondrous phrase! Together
they bent over the tiny slips of paper. There it was again--"I love
you"--twice blazoned in magic symbols. With blushing eagerness she told
him how, by mere accident of course, she caught sight of her own name.
It was not very wrong, was it, to pick up that tiny scrap, or those
others, which she could not help seeing, and which unfolded their
simple tale so truthfully? Wrong! It was so delightfully right that he
must kiss her again to emphasize his convictions.

All this fondling and love-making had, of course, an air of grotesque
absurdity because indulged in by two grimy and tattered individuals