“Norah!” cried Lorison.

“Let me go on.  You have told me about yourself.  We have been such good friends.  I must tell you now what I never wanted you to know.  I am—­worse than you are.  I was on the stage . . .  I sang in the chorus . . .  I was pretty bad, I guess . . .  I stole diamonds from the prima donna . . . they arrested me . . .  I gave most of them up, and they let me go . . .  I drank wine every night . . . a great deal . . .  I was very wicked, but—­”

Lorison knelt quickly by her side and took her hands.

“Dear Norah!” he said, exultantly.  “It is you, it is you I love!  You never guessed it, did you?  ’Tis you I meant all the time.  Now I can speak.  Let me make you forget the past.  We have both suffered; let us shut out the world, and live for each other.  Norah, do you hear me say I love you?”

“In spite of—­”

“Rather say because of it.  You have come out of your past noble and good.  Your heart is an angel’s.  Give it to me.”

“A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak.”

“But for you; not for myself.  Can you love me?”

She cast herself, wildly sobbing, upon his breast.

“Better than life—­than truth itself—­than everything.”

“And my own past,” said Lorison, with a note of solicitude—­“can you forgive and—­”

“I answered you that,” she whispered, “when I told you I loved you.”  She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him.  “If I had not told you about myself, would you have—­would you—­”

“No,” he interrupted; “I would never have let you know I loved you.  I would never have asked you this—­Norah, will you be my wife?”

She wept again.

“Oh, believe me; I am good now—­I am no longer wicked!  I will be the best wife in the world.  Don’t think I am—­bad any more.  If you do I shall die, I shall die!”

While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous.  “Will you marry me to-night?” she said.  “Will you prove it that way.  I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night.  Will you?”

Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome:  either of importunate brazenness or of utter innocence.  The lover’s perspective contained only the one.

“The sooner,” said Lorison, “the happier I shall be.”

“What is there to do?” she asked.  “What do you have to get?  Come!  You should know.”

Her energy stirred the dreamer to action.

“A city directory first,” he cried, gayly, “to find where the man lives who gives licenses to happiness.  We will go together and rout him out.  Cabs, cars, policemen, telephones and ministers shall aid us.”

“Father Rogan shall marry us,” said the girl, with ardour.  “I will take you to him.”

An hour later the two stood at the open doorway of an immense, gloomy brick building in a narrow and lonely street.  The license was tight in Norah’s hand.