"It's the realest thing about me—it's grown to be the whole of me," Loveland broke out. "Nothing else matters. That's why I should have had to kill myself if you'd been hurt—or—but I can't speak of it. Thank God, you're alive and not injured. Yes, that's enough for me—it's got to be enough, and I ought to be happy though you're going to belong to another man."
"You wouldn't have wanted to marry me, any way," said Lesley.
"I wouldn't have wanted to—when it's the thing I'd give all but one year of my life for—the one year I'd keep to be happy in with you."
"Just a poor little humble story writer—and you would really like to marry It?"
"Don't torture me," said Loveland. "I've had about all I can stand. If I were the impostor you think me——"
"I don't think you an impostor," replied Lesley, beginning to speak in quite a natural tone of voice again, though she kept the support of Loveland's arm. "I never said I did. I only asked you once, why I should have more faith in you than others had? But I'd be ready to take you on faith, if you were ready to take me without a fortune."
The blood rushed to Loveland's face, which had been pale and drawn. "Is it true—do you mean it?" he stammered. "Do you care for me a little?"
"A great deal," said Lesley. "Too much, I used to think on the ship; but I don't think so now, because you're different. It's the real you I loved all the time. The miracle's happened, you know. I'm seeing the other side of the moon. But wouldn't it be doing you an injury to marry you, when you and your family counted on a great heiress?"
"It was the other Me, who hadn't the sense to see what a beastly, caddish thing it would be to marry a girl just because she was rich—a girl I didn't love," Val hurried on. "Oh, Lesley, you're not playing with me, are you? I couldn't marry any other woman but you."
"What about the old family home that's tumbling to ruin?"