Beatrice pulled aside a cotton curtain that had been fastened across one corner, and was not a little surprised to find her own pink calico gown, which she had made early in the summer. Robert was as interested as she was, though the light was rapidly failing. He had found a tallow dip and kept it within easy reach, though he had his doubts as to the wisdom of a light.
With an exclamation of astonishment, he stooped and picked up a pair of moccasins—small, dainty, and heavily beaded—the very pair he had lost.
"See, dearest," he said, "these are the moccasins I had for your birthday. I told you they had been stolen, don't you remember?"
The girl turned her sweet face to his. "I'm going to thank you for them now."
"I don't deserve it, sweetheart, and I'll tell you why. I wanted to tell you then, but, someway, I didn't have the courage. I didn't know it was your birthday—I'd had the moccasins a long time, but I didn't want George to get the better of me, and so I let you think I knew."
The mention of Ronald's name brought tears to her eyes. "I have a confession to make," she said. "Come here." She put her arm around his neck and drew his head down, then whispered to him.
"My darling!" he replied, brokenly, "did you think me beast enough to grudge him that? I'm glad you did it and I always will be. Poor lad, he couldn't have you, and you are mine for always."
"I know," she sighed; "but I like to think that I made him happy—that he was happy when he died."
"He loved you, Bee—almost as much as I do."
"He couldn't," she said softly, "for nobody ever loved anybody else as much as you love me"; and he was quite willing to have it so.