Three months ago I told Norah. It was not news to her. But she trusted me." I felt my face to be as white and as tense as his own. "Norah--knows!" "It is better to speak these things. Then there need be no shifting of the eyes, no evasive words, no tricks, no subterfuge." We had faced about and were retracing our steps, past the rows of peculiarly home-like houses that line Milwaukee's magnificent lake shore. Windows were hung with holiday scarlet and holly, and here and there a face was visible at a window, looking out at the man and woman walking swiftly along the wind-swept heights that rose far above the lake. A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of those normal, happy homes. "Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were make-believe friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care, then what." "I do not ask you to tell me," Von Gerhard replied, quietly. "You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the big quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of twisting your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why I love the very cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair grows away from your forehead, and your walk, and your voice and--Oh, what is the use of it all?" "Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of our inner con
