drooped a little; and those snowy shoulders were heaving with suppressed sobs.
In an instant he was at her side; the next, she had turned to him with shining eyes and yearning arms.
“My own poor boy!” she whispered through her tears. “Oh, thank heaven you had no money for those stamps!”
“Claire!” he gasped, falling back; “do not speak to me like that. I am not worthy—you don’t understand. You should go your way and never think of me again.”
“There is somebody else,” said the girl, calmly.
“That I love? No, indeed!”
“You are not married?”
“God forbid.”
“Then you have changed your mind. Well, if it makes you happier, dear, I can bear that too. I love you well enough—”
“Hush!” he said hoarsely, “it is not that. I love you, too, my darling—ah! God knows how truly now! Yet I have come to contemptible grief; I have been everything that’s bad. What value can there be in such a love?”
“I don’t know—still less care! It is all the love I want—it’s good enough for me!” she whispered; and with a deep, sweet sigh she hid her face against his shabby shoulder. He touched the dainty head with his hand, but not his lips. His eyes were fixed upon the moon, that was like a golden curl astray in night’s tresses; and his handsome, haggard face was discoloured and deformed with this the quintessence of his discreditable woes.
“Good enough for you—of all women!” he bitterly repeated. “My love for you! Didn’t I tell you I was no longer worthy of even your friendship? That was the
