A lump came into his throat and he swallowed hard.  Blindly, he went over to her chair.  The girl’s flower-like face was lifted questioningly to his.  He bent over and kissed her, full upon the lips.

Araminta shrank from him a little, and the colour surged into her face, but her eyes, still trustful, still tender, never wavered from his.

“I suppose I’m a brute,” Ralph said, huskily, “but God knows I haven’t meant to be.”

Araminta smiled—­a sweet, uncomprehending smile.  Ralph possessed himself of her hand.  It was warm and steady—­his own was cold and tremulous.

“Child,” he said, “did any one ever kiss you before?”

“No,” replied Araminta; “only Aunt Hitty.  It was when I was a baby and she thought I was lost.  She kissed me—­here.”  Araminta pointed to her soft cheek.  “Did you kiss me because I was well?”

Ralph shook his head despairingly.  “The man in the book kissed the lady,” went on Araminta, happily, “because he was so glad they were to talk together again, but we—­why, I shall never see you any more,” she concluded, sadly.

His fingers tightened upon hers.  “Yes,” he said, in a strange voice, “we shall see each other again.”

“They both seem very well,” sighed Araminta, referring to Aunt Hitty and Mr. Thorpe, “and even if I fell off of a ladder again, it might not hurt me at all.  I have fallen from lots of places and only got black and blue.  I never broke before.”

“Listen, child,” said Ralph.  “Would you rather live with Aunt Hitty, or with me?”

“Why, Doctor Ralph!  Of course I’d rather live with you, but Aunt Hitty would never let me!”

“We’re not talking about Aunt Hitty now.  Is there anyone in the world whom you like better than you do me?”

“No,” said Araminta, softly, her eyes shining.  “How could there be?”

“Do you love me, Araminta?”

“Yes,” she answered, sweetly, “of course I do!  You’ve been so good to me!”

The tone made the words meaningless.  “Child,” said Ralph, “you break my heart.”

He walked back and forth again, restlessly, and Araminta watched him, vaguely troubled.  What in the world had she done?

Meanwhile, he was meditating.  He could not bear to have her go back to her prison, even for a little while.  Had he found her only to lose her, because she had no soul?

Presently he came back to her and stood by her chair.  “Listen, dear,” he said, tenderly.  “You told me there was no one in the world for whom you cared more than you care for me.  You said you loved me, and I love you—­God knows I do.  If you’ll trust me, Araminta, you’ll never be sorry, never for one single minute as long as you live.  Would you like to live with me in a little house with roses climbing over it, just us two alone?”

“Yes,” returned Araminta, dreamily, “and I could keep the little cat.”