afraid of him.

"That's right, darling," the man answered, stooping down and laying
his cheek against her own once more. "You are mine, and I am yours.
You are not and never were Robert Monteith's, my Frida. So now,
good-night, till Monday at two, beside the stile in Middle Mill
Meadows!"

She clung to him for a moment in a passionate embrace. He let her
stop there, while he smoothed her dark hair with one free hand.
Then suddenly, with a burst, the older feelings of her race
overcame her for a minute; she broke from his grasp and hid her
head, all crimson, in a cushion on the sofa. One second later,
again, she lifted her face unabashed. The new impulse stirred her.
"I'm proud I love you, Bertram," she cried, with red lips and
flashing eyes; "and I'm proud you love me!"

With that, she slipped quietly out, and walked, erect and graceful,
no longer ashamed, down the lodging-house passage.






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