"I—I'm all right, and—and rather happy," whispered Lesley. "I don't think anything's the matter at all—except a little shock."
"Let me lift you up for a minute, so that we can make sure whether you are hurt," said Val. "I'll do it so gently——"
"No. I'd rather lie still—just as I am," the girl answered.
"Would you be more comfortable if I laid your head on the ground?"
"No, keep it on your arm, please. I like it there," said Lesley; and Loveland was made so happy by the words and by the sudden revulsion from despair to hope that he could have broken down and sobbed.
"I feel as if I'd been dreaming," she murmured on. "I dreamed that you—that you called me—your darling: that you said you loved me."
"Forgive me!" exclaimed Loveland. "I couldn't help it. I was half mad."
"Then it wasn't a dream?"
"No. It wasn't a dream," he confessed. "Even though you think me an impostor, you can't believe me a wholly unredeemed villain, or you wouldn't have taken me into your house—for charity's sake, though it was. So you must know now that you've nothing to fear from my love."
"Is it real love—tell me?" she asked, her head nestling comfortably against his arm.