But the child interposed, vehemently:
"I love you both, and I will stay with you both. Only mamma must not go away from Eden."
He drew her forward impulsively as he spoke. He placed her hand in her husband's, and closed his own little dimpled fingers around them, so that Laurel could not draw hers away.
"Mamma, I love you first and best," he said. "But I love papa and grandmamma, too. If he has been naughty, let us forgive him and stay with him."
"Stay with me, Laurel," echoed St. Leon.
She felt the warm, persuasive clasp of his fingers on hers. All the ice about her heart melted beneath that touch. She could not hold out against him. She knew that she must yield if she did not fly from his presence.
"Oh, let me go!" she cried. "It is not best that I should come back to you. It is the child you want. There is so much in the past that would haunt us! There is so much to rouse reproach and regret. We are best apart. Oh, let me go!"
But somehow he had drawn her down to the clasp of his arms now. His warm lips were pressed against her cheek.
"Only one word, dear," he whispered. "Do you love me still, my Laurel?"
"I have loved you always," she murmured, and she knew that with this confession love had conquered pride.