Quick tears dimmed the great blue eyes, as her hand reached out and rested upon his arm. Her lips quivered.
"I have hurt you," she said, turning away her head. "Oh, I didn't mean to do that!"
Hurt from her! He could have lifted the white hand reverently to his lips. Hurt from that crown of womanhood, that glory of womanhood—the tender heart of sympathy! Hurt—ah, no! Like the balm of some bright, radiant, ministering angel seemed her presence there to him.
"No," he said. "No; you have not hurt me—and you must not feel that you have." Then quickly, as though picking up the thread of a story: "You see, I had little opportunity to search. I dreamed of it as a boy; and as a boy, before I came really to understand, I dreamed of it in fairyland—do you know what I mean? I was very much, and I think a little importantly, concerned in my own mystery, and my imagination was constantly at play. I pictured myself awaking some day to find that I was the long lost, stolen heir of great people, and there would be castles and estates and trains of servants and yachts and—and so many things—everything that my boyish fancy could depict. And I was so very sure of it all, you see, that in my childish conceit I resented it very bitterly when people called me Varge Merton. And so"—he paused and the wistful smile deepened on his lips—"and so I remained—just Varge."
"I see"—the gold head nodded thoughtfully. "And then?"
"Another woman taught me the greatness of a
