"Dear Polly!" he said, as he took her hand in his. Gently she pulled it away.
"I—I cannot speak to you now," she whispered.
Then a long silence. The low music of a million tiny wings came floating in at the window. It seemed, somehow, like a voice of the past, with minutes, like the bees, hymning indistinguishably. Polly and Trove were thinking of the same things. "I can doubt him no more," she thought, "and I know—I know that he loves me." They could hear the flutter of bird wings beyond the window and in the stillness they got some understanding of each other. She turned suddenly, and went to where he stood.
"Sidney," she said, "I am sorry—I am sorry if I have hurt you."
She lifted one of his hands and pressed her red cheek upon it fondly. In a moment he spoke.
"Long ago I knew that you were doubting me, but I couldn't help it," he said.
"It was that—that horrible secret," she whispered.
"I had no, right to your love," said he, "until—" he hesitated for a little, "until I could tell you the truth."
"You loved somebody else?" she whispered, turning to him. "Didn't you, now? Tell me."
"No," said he, calmly. "The fact is—the fact is I had learned that my father was a thief."