The sound of the door and a murmur of voices roused Aurore from sleep.

The next moment André came into the room. She sat up on the sofa, her hands clasped tightly together, her fair hair slightly tousled, and her cheeks flushed after sleep. The shades of evening were drawing in, and the rosy light of sunset had crept into the room. André, at the door, had not yet moved. He was looking his fill on the exquisite vision which had transformed this simple room into a mansion of paradise.

At last he asked the obvious questions:

"Why are you here? Has anything happened?"

"Yes, André," she replied, "a very great deal has happened. My father, poor wretch, has completely lost his reason!"

"Heavens above!"

"No," she said, "I don't mean in that way, though I do think Doctor Mignet would actually pronounce him mad."

She paused a moment. Her throat felt so dry that she could hardly speak. There were a carafe and a glass on the side table. André filled the glass with water and brought it to her. While she drank he stood beside her, and when she was about to put the glass down he took it from her, and his hand touched her fingers, which were trembling and cold.

"You are overwrought," he said gently. "Don't try and talk now. I will call Marie and she-"

"No! no!" she broke in quickly. "I don't want anyone. I am only tired from the journey, and I must tell you-"

"Yes? What is it?"

"Spurred by his insane hatred against you, my father has denounced you-"

"How do you know that?"

"Never mind how I know: I know it. I swear to you that it is so. One day I will tell you just how I found out, but not now. There is no time. I came to warn you before - before-"

"You came to warn me?" he asked, frowning, evidently puzzled.

"Yes."

"Why?"

They looked at each other, he uncomprehending, not daring to comprehend, and she, seized with that awful shyness which almost paralyzed her will and her tongue.

"Why?" he insisted, but this time he came nearer her, and his voice was hoarse and broken like that of a man gasping for breath.

"Because," she murmured, "because-"

It was her eyes that answered him. Her lips refused her service.

"Because you cared?"

Was there ever a cry uttered by man more exultant than this which rose like a paean of joy from André Vallon's throat? In a moment he was beside her on one knee, not daring to touch her yet, but with ardent, passionate gaze trying to read the secret of her soul.

"Because you cared?" he insisted. "Tell me."

"André!"

"Because you cared what became of me? Say it! Say it! Say the word, ma mie! Tell me that you came," he entreated, "because you cared."

How could she speak? The whole world, the sordid, ugly world, lay suddenly shattered at her feet, and in the gaze that sought and held her own she had a glimpse of such a vision of Elysian fields as human mind could scarcely conceive. She returned his gaze and her eyes, which had always seemed unfathomable, revealed to him the secret which she had thought would remain forever buried in her heart. It was Love that had spurred her to come. Love that had so often made her heart ache almost to breaking point. Love! and the longing to feel once more that dear strong arm around her, to pillow her head against that loyal breast, to hear that great and simple heart beat only for her. He loved her, and she did not know it! And now that the heavenly knowledge had come to her at last it came hand-in-hand with the agonizing dread for his life.

"André!" she said suddenly, all the joy in her heart smothered in this awful dread, "you must leave Paris at once."

He did not seem to hear. He had had his answer from her eyes, and his soul was no longer on this earth. It had gone a-roaming in paradise.

"You came," he murmured, "because you cared."

But, womanlike, she thought only of him, of the terrible danger which every minute as it sped by brought nearer and nearer to their door.

"You don't understand, André," she insisted. "My father is in Paris. It was only after he left that I suspected-"

"And then you came because you cared."

"André, at this very hour, perhaps-"

"At this very hour I am adoring you, Aurore-"

"There's time to get away," she entreated feverishly.

"And I want eternity in which to tell you how I worship you-"

"In God's name, André!" she cried. "It may mean death if you stay-"

But his hand was buried in her hair and forced her dear head closer and closer to him.

"My exquisite Aurore!" he whispered in her ear, "you are the most perfect being God ever made. I was a fool not to tell you this before, but I will not die, Dawn of my Soul, before I have taught you how good it is to love, how sweet it is to kiss."

He held her so close that she could no longer struggle. His lips were on hers, and she could no longer warn, and he asked the great, the immortal question which lovers have asked since the beginning of time, and the answer to which will open for them the gates either of paradise or of hell.

"Do you love me, my wife?"

And Aurore's eyes and lips answered softly, "Yes."