words my heart was touched and I came to you at once."
After a momentary silence, he said: "At least, I can always remember the great goodness of heart which prompted you to come to me."
"Don't misunderstand," she replied wistfully. "It was not I who suggested my going to you. It was the plan of Jerold Wharton."
For a while he sat in silence, his face cold and colorless. Minutes passed and still he did not speak. Finally Olga Fullerton could bear the terrible strain no longer.
"You are angry," she whispered. "I do not blame you. I have acted shamefully."
He smiled wanly.
"No," he said wearily, "I am not angry, for you have given me a few months of the really greatest things of life. Before you came to me, I had nothing to look back upon save work and nothing to look forward to. Now, the future is the same, but the past is made beautiful by the presence of wonderful memories."
He took her hand in his and looked into her eyes, dim with tears. "Before I go," said he very softly, "I wonder if you will kiss me once."
******
Back at the house, in his own room, Jerold Wharton was playing the "Serenata." Softly his fingers wandered listlessly over the keys. And thus it happened that at the self-same moment both he and Coningsby were thinking of that memorable night on which he
