But the other, without a word or sign of fear, went up to that wild-looking figure, and put her hand in his.

Peter stopped his crazed stride.

"I can't think, I tell you. I can't think as long as you lie there on the rug. And your eyes blaze so. They feel just like b.a.l.l.s of fire."

"Please sit down, Peter. Please? For my sake. Here. Here is the chair.

Please sit down."

Peter sank back in the chair. "I tell you I can't think. They do nothing but burn. It's the petroleum!" He started forward, but a slender arm arrested his attempt to rise, and he sank back again as if it had some power over him.

"Hyah, miss. Foh de lub ub heaben, put some ub dis yar on he eyes," said Jenifer, who had appeared with a bottle, and was blubbering enough to supply a whole whaling fleet. "De doctor he done give dis yar foh de Aspic nerve." Which is a dish that Jenifer must have invented himself, for it is not discoverable even on the fullest of menus.

Leonore knelt in front of Peter, and, drenching her fingers with the wash, began rubbing it softly over his eyes. It has always been a problem whether it was the remedy or the ends of those fingers which took those lines of suffering out of Peter's face and made him sit quietly in that chain Those having little faith in medicines, and much faith in a woman's hands, will opine the latter. Doctors will not.

Sufficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which Peter's face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to one which denoted eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he finally put out his hands and took Leonore's.

"You have come to me," he said, "Has he told you?"

"Who? What?" asked Leonore.

"You still think I could?" cried Peter. "Then why are you here?" He opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, only Leonore was kneeling in front of the chair still.

"Don't excite yourself, Peter," begged Leonore. "We'll not talk of that now. Not till you are better."

"What are you here for?" cried Peter. "Why did you come--?"

"Oh, please, Peter, be quiet."

"Tell me, I will have it." Peter was exciting himself, more from Leonore's look than by what she said.

"Oh, Peter. I made papa bring me--because--Oh! I wanted to ask you to do something. For my sake!"

"What is it?"

"I wanted to ask you," sobbed Leonore, "to marry her. Then I shall always think you were what I--I--have been loving, and not--" Leonore laid her head down on his knee, and sobbed bitterly.

Peter raised Leonore in his arms, and laid the little head on his shoulder.

"Dear one," he said, "do you love me?"

"Yes," sobbed Leonore.

"And do you think I love you?"

"Yes."

"Now look into your heart. Could you tell me a lie?"

"No."

"Nor can I you. I am not the father of that boy, and I never wronged his mother."

"But you told--" sobbed Leonore.

"I lied to your mother, dear."

"For what?" Leonore had lifted her head, and there was a look of hope in her eyes, as well as of doubt.

"Because it was better at that time than the truth. But Watts will tell you that I lied."

"Papa?"

"Yes, Dot. Dear old Peter speaks the truth."

"But if you lied to her, why not to me?"

"I can't lie to you, Leonore. I am telling you the truth. Won't you believe me?"

"I do," cried Leonore. "I know you speak the truth. It's in your face and voice." And the next moment her arms were about Peter's neck, and her lips were on his.

Just then some one in the "torchlight" shouted:

"What's the matter wid Stirling?"

And a thousand voices joyfully yelled;

"He's all right."

And so was the crowd.

CHAPTER LX.

A CONUNDRUM.

Mr. Pierce was preparing to talk. Usually Mr. Pierce was talking. Mr.

Pierce had been talking already, but it had been to single listeners only, and for quite a time in the last three hours Mr. Pierce had been compelled to be silent. But at last Mr. Pierce believed his moment had come. Mr. Pierce thought he had an audience, and a plastic audience at that. And these three circ.u.mstances in combination made Mr. Pierce fairly bubbling with words. No longer would he have to waste his precious wit and wisdom, _tete-a-tete,_ or on himself.

At first blush Mr. Pierce seemed right in his conjecture. Seated--in truth, collapsed, on chairs and lounges, in a disarranged and untidy-looking drawing-room, were nearly twenty very tired-looking people. The room looked as if there had just been a free fight there, and the people looked as if they had been the partic.i.p.ants. But the mult.i.tude of flowers and the gay dresses proved beyond question that something else had made the disorder of the room and had put that exhausted look upon the faces.

Experienced observers would have understood it at a glimpse. From the work and fatigues of this world, people had gathered for a little enjoyment of what we call society. It is true that both the room and its occupants did not indicate that there had been much recreation. But, then, one can lay it down as an axiom that the people who work for pleasure are the hardest-working people in the world; and, as it is that for which society labors, this scene is but another proof that they get very much fatigued over their pursuit of happiness and enjoyment, considering that they hunt for it in packs, and entirely exclude the most delicious intoxicant known--usually called oxygen--from their list of supplies from the caterer. Certainly this particular group did look exhausted far beyond the speech-making point. But this, too, was a deception. These limp-looking individuals had only remained in this drawing-room for the sole purpose of "talking it over," and Mr. Pierce had no walk-over before him.

Mr. Pierce cleared his throat and remarked: "The development of marriage customs and ceremonies from primeval days is one of the most curious and--"

"What a lovely wedding it has been!" said Dorothy, heaving a sigh of fatigue and pleasure combined.