A few minutes before, Miles had taken Jill for a walk along the sands; in a short time they would return, and the opportunity for quiet conversation would be over. Betty turned slowly, to meet her companion's deep-set eyes fixed intently on her face. He had fallen into a habit of watching her in this earnest manner, and was often able to divine her thoughts even before she spoke.

"What is it?" he asked gently. "Something is troubling you. Won't you tell me what it is?"

"It's Miles! He said this morning that he intended to take only three months' holiday—that means to leave England in six or seven weeks from now. I can't believe it. We counted on six months or more,—possibly even a year. Do you think he seriously means to go?"

"I am sure he does, and I think he is right. If you want to be really kind, Miss Trevor, you won't ask him to stay."

Betty's lips trembled.

"Oh, perhaps not, but it is hardest of all to feel that he wants to go; that with all our love and care we are so much outside his life that we can't make him happy or satisfied. Poor mother! It must be dreadful to bring up a child all those years, and to long and long for his return, and then see him in a hurry to rush away again, just because— oh, I know that you know the real reason—because of a girl of whom, after all, he has seen very little! It's very hard!"

"Yes, it is hard—but it is the natural course of events, and I am sure Mrs Trevor realises that Miles is one of the best sons that it is possible for a woman to have. He doesn't love you any the less because he feels the need of getting back to his work. A man must work if he has any trouble weighing upon him; it is the only safe way of letting off steam. Fortunately there is plenty for him to do, and the chances are good for a speedy return."

He paused, and Betty turned her head aside, and gazed over the darkening sea.

"And—you?" she asked softly. "Will you go too?"

"That depends."

"On business?"

"Partly. If things go on as well as they have started, the company will be floated in another month, and I shall be of more use at the other end than here. I have made no plans, however. There are other considerations which come even before business."

He paused again, as if waiting to be questioned, but Betty did not speak. The gentle break of the water was the only sound which broke the silence. Afar off she could just distinguish the dark, retreating figures of Miles and Jill. She stared at them, at the sea, the sky, anywhere except at that pale, eager face which was watching her so intently.

"Betty," breathed a low voice by her side, "you know what I mean! You know that my going or staying depends upon yourself—that the happiness of my life is in your hands! Are you going to be kind to me, Betty? Will you let me love you?"

She drew herself away from him with a cry of protest, almost startling in its suddenness.

"Oh no, no! I cannot—I must not listen! It is quite impossible. Please don't say any more. I cannot listen to you!"

"But, Betty,"—he put out his hand and took forcible possession of the little cold fingers—"I must speak. We must have this out, and be honest with each other. Dear!—don't think me presumptuous, but lately I have fancied that you did care a little bit for me, and were not perfectly indifferent whether I came or stayed. Was I quite mistaken? Can you look me in the eyes, Betty, and say that I am no more to you than any other man?"

Betty did not attempt to meet his eyes, and her disclaimer was transparently artificial.

"Oh, of course you are Miles' friend, naturally it is different—but I can't be engaged to anybody. It's impossible. Please, please believe that I know what I say!"

"Not unless you tell me the reason why it is impossible. Is there someone else, Betty? Someone whom you love better than me?"

"No—yes! I don't know if I love him, but I have always felt as if I belonged to him, and must wait till he came back. You would think me mad if you knew the whole story. I sometimes think I am mad myself, but I feel as if I should be betraying a trust if I married another man."

Will Gerard sat very still for a moment. Then: "Tell me about it!" he said hoarsely. "Tell me! I ought to know. Perhaps I shall understand."

"I don't understand myself," said Betty sadly. "I have tried not to care for you, but I do care in spite of trying. When I thought of you going away, my heart stood still, but the other thing has gone on so long; it has been part of my life, and even for your sake I can't forget it. If I could be sure that he was well and happy, and had found someone else to love him, then to be your wife would be the greatest happiness in the world; but until I hear, I feel—bound! We only met once. That sounds mad enough, doesn't it? And I know nothing of him but his Christian name. It was an evening more than six years ago; we had been at a concert at the Albert Hall, and when we came out there was a black fog, and I lost Miles, and met this man, who brought me home instead. He was in great trouble—I found it out from something he said—in such terrible trouble that he had lost all hope, and made up his mind to commit suicide. That was the first time that I had ever been brought face to face with real trouble, and it changed my whole life. Think of it! I was coming back to my happy home from an afternoon's pleasure, and he—was going to the river..."

Will Gerard had been sitting listening to her with his head buried in his hands, but at the sound of that last word he raised his face, and turned towards her with a sudden, passionate gesture.

"And you came to him like a good angel in the midst of the darkness— came to him without a face or a name,—just as a girl's sweet voice bidding him take courage, and sending him out to a fresh battle! And all these years you have treasured him in your faithful heart, and waited for his return; and he has waited too, Betty, and worked hard— worked for you with the thought of you before him! And now that he can repay his debts and look the world in the face once more, he comes to you for his reward. Betty, Betty, a man may have more names than one— is my face quite strange to you? Have you never seen it before—in a half light like this, lit by a flickering flame? Betty, look! What do you see?"

She gave a little gasp of incredulity—rapture—relief, and held out her hands towards him.

"Ralph, Ralph! It is you—you have come home!"

So the long dream was fulfilled, and the fairy prince threw off his disguise, and showed himself in the shape of the struggler who had bravely redeemed a past offence. In loving one, she could love both. Past and present united in bestowing a perfect happiness. Betty held Ralph's hands in her own, and looked deep into his eyes.

THE END.