Part 6 (1/2)

When he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him.

What followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than told.

”You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs.

Wharton,” he said after awhile. ”You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat, the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn't I have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you?

Anybody who would get off of a night train in Fossingford certainly ought to be ashamed of something.”

”But Fossingford is on the map, isn't it? One has a perfect right to get off where she likes, hasn't she, provided it is on the map?”

”Not at all! That's what maps are for: to let you see where you don't get off.”

”But I was obliged to get off there. My ticket said 'Fossingford,' and, besides, I was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. You had no right to jump at conclusions.”

”Well, if you had not descended to earth at Fossingford I wouldn't be in heaven at Eagle Nest. Come to think of it, I believe you did quite the proper thing in getting off at Fossingford--no matter what the hour.”

”You must remember always that I have not taken you to task for a most flagrant piece of--shall I say indiscretion?”

”Good Heavens!”