Beatrix bent and kissed the poor, pale lips that faltered over this humble confession.
"My dear, I have known it all the while," she said, simply.
"And you forgive me for my duplicity?" asked Laurel, in wonder.
"My dear, if you can forgive me all the sorrow my willful plot brought down upon your head, there is nothing I cannot forgive you," cried impulsive Beatrix.
"You were not to blame," Laurel answered, and the warm color drifted over her face as she went on, sadly: "It was all the fault of my mad love, Beatrix. I blame no one for my folly and sin. If I had gone away from Eden with Clarice Wells, nothing would have happened. I stayed, and brought down fate upon my own head—and his."
"A happy fate, my dear, if only you will be reconciled to him," said Beatrix, gently.
The dark eyes looked up at her, full of the pathos of regret and despair.
"Ah! now I understand all the pathos that lies in those words, too late," she said. "I was mad, I think—mad with my wounded love and pride. I denied my identity to him, I refused to listen to his repentance, I was cruelly hard and cold; and now my punishment has come. I repent, but he cannot hear me. My love cannot reach him, for he is dead."
"Dead! ah, no, my dear! Is it possible that you have been thinking so? He lives, he will soon be well and strong again if only you will forgive him."