"You've been a brave little girl to-night"—he lifted his hand to place it on her shoulder in the first expression of love he had ever given. The hand paused, held by the struggle of the feelings of centuries of racial pride and the memories of his own bitter tragedy. But the pathos of her suffering and the heroism of her beautiful spirit won. The hand was gently lowered and pressed the soft, round shoulder.
A sob broke from the lonely heart, and her head drooped until it lay prostrate on the table, the beautiful arms outstretched in helpless surrender.
Norton staggered blindly to the door, looked back, lifted his hand and in a quivering voice, said:
"I can never forget this!"
His long stride quickly measured the distance to the gate, and a loud cheer from the serenaders roused the girl from her stupor of pain.
In a moment they began singing again, a love song, that tore her heart with cruel power.
"Oh, God, will they never stop?" she cried, closing her ears with her hands in sheer desperation.
She rose, crossed slowly to the window and looked out on the beautiful moonlit lawn at the old rustic seat where her lover was waiting. She pressed her hand on her throbbing forehead, walked to the center of the room, looked about her in a helpless way and her eye rested on the miniature portrait of Tom. She picked it up and gazed at it tenderly, pressed it to her heart, and with a low sob felt her way through the door and up the stairs to her room.