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“Forgive me,” said Latham, humbly.

He bent forward and took her hand, not fumbling for it, knowing precisely where it lay, Anne noticed, wondering.

“That was a cowardly, contemptible speech! I believe I wanted to hurt you! There is a confession, and it amazes me as much as it can you that it is true. I told you that I was tired to-day; it’s nerves. Set it down to nerves, won’t you? That sounds like a sneaking plea for mercy, but I don’t mean it that way. You’d rather it were my nerves than myself that were unkind? It would be such a beastly thing to want to hurt you of all people! Confession deserves absolution when it is sincere and contrite, doesn’t it?”

“No. It makes it unnecessary,” said Anne, softly. She was glad that he could not see the tears in her eyes. Never before had this brave and gentle soul betrayed to her the effort that it cost him to be and to do without complaint all that he was and did.

“Kind little Shriver!” said Richard Latham, pressing the hand that held his tighter than Anne knew.