He came forward into the light. His shirt was torn and charred and one singed arm lay naked to the shoulder. His face was white and drawn under the grime and the smudged smoke, and trouble showed deep in his eyes.
“I—couldn’t help it, my girlie,” he said. “Maiden—I did what I could.”
“Steve—oh, what is it? Yer not hurt—bad? Steve! Tell me!”
“He weren’t fit fur yer. Maiden. But he were game. Ter the very last he were game, dear. He—oh, why was I sech a blamed fool as ter think I could tell yer! I can’t! I can’t!”
Maiden sprang to him, holding him about the neck and never heeding his tattered shirt against her whiteness.
“Steve! You never killed no one! Ah! Not that! Not that, Steve!”
“Killed him! No, dearie! But—he’s dead. Lou’s dead. Maiden. He died game. I near died with him.”
She leant back from him, her lips quivering between laughter and tears.
“And if you had I’d have never forgiven you, Steve. Steve, you silly boy! When you knew there was never anyone else but only you—only you!”
“Maiden! You never tolt me———”
“You never asked me, you mean,” she said.
Steve took her up in his great arms, and in
