And Kent, unseen by the girl who was looking away from him, raised his eyes.

The birch light was glowing in her hair; it trembled on her white throat; her long lashes were caught in the shimmer of it.

And, looking at her, Kent thought of Kedsty lying back in his bungalow room, choked to death by a tress of that glorious hair, so near to him now that, by leaning a little forward, he might have touched it with his lips.

The thought brought him no horror.

For even as he looked, one of her hands crept up to her cheek--the small, soft hand that had touched his face and hair as lightly as a bit of thistle-down--and he knew that two hands like that could not have killed a man who was fighting for life when he died.
And Kent reached up, and took the hand, and held it close in his own, as he said, "Little Gray Goose, please tell me now--what happened in Kedsty's room ?" His voice thrilled with an immeasurable faith.