I was so hard and bitter--only
because I loved you so."

"I know," was all he said. And he kissed her hair.

"Do you?"--wistfully. "I wonder if--if a man can understand how a woman
can be so cruel to what she loves?"

And as he had no answer to this (since, after all, a man cannot be
expected to understand all--or even very much--that a woman does), he
kissed her lips.

She crept a little nearer to him.

"Max! Do you still care for me--like that?" There was wonder and
thanksgiving in her voice. "Oh, my dear, I'm down in the dust at your
feet--I've failed you utterly, wronged you every way. Even if you
forgive me, I shall never forgive myself. But I'm--all yours, Max."

With a sudden jealous movement he folded her more closely in his arms.

"Let me have a few moments of this," he muttered, a little breathlessly.
"A few moments of thinking you have come back to me."

"But I _have_ come back to you!" Her eyes grew wide and startled with a
sudden, desperate apprehension. "You won't send me away again--not now?"

His face twisted with pain.

"Beloved, I must! God knows how hard it will be--but there is no other
way."

"No other way?" She broke from his arms, searching his face with her
frightened eyes. "What do you mean? . . . _What do you mean_? Don't
you--care--any longer?"

He smiled, as a man may who is asked whether the sun will rise to-morrow.

"Not that, beloved. Never that. I've always cared, and I shall go on
caring through this world and into the next--even though, after to-night,
we may never be together again."

"Never--together again?" She clung to him. "Oh, why do you say such
things? I can't--I can't live without you now. Max, I'm sorry--_sorry_!
I've been punished enough--don't punish me any more by sending me away
from you."

"Punish you! Heart's dearest, there has never been any thought of
punishment in my mind. Heaven knows, I've reproached myself bitterly
enough for all the misery I've brought on you."

"Then why--why do you talk of sending me away?"

"I'm not going to send you away. It is I who have to go. Oh, beloved!
I ought never to have come here this evening. But I thought if I might
see you--just once again--before I went out into the night, I should at
least have that to remember. . . . And then you sang, and it seemed as
though you were calling me. . . ."

"Yes," she said very softly. "I called you. I wanted you so." Then,
after a moment, with s