“Rhoda,” he said gently, “I knew to-night in the iron plant that you cared. I told him so. What he wants to see you for is to tell you that he thinks I am the luckiest man in all the world. You are clear, dear. Even Rough Rorke is singing your praises; he says you are the only woman who ever put one over on him.”
She did not answer for a moment; and then with a little sob of glad surrender she buried her face on his shoulder.
“It—it is very wonderful,” she said brokenly, “for—for even we, you and I, each thought the other a—a thief.”
“And so we were, thank God!” he whispered—and lifted her head until now his lips met hers. “We were both thieves, Rhoda, weren't we? And, please God, we will be all our lives—for we have stolen each other's heart.”