ky, purposeless vista of years that stretched before
him. Yes, and before her also. They had not spent all those hours
together without talking of themselves. No matter that she was
cheerful, that youth gave her courage and a ready smile, there was
still a finality about blindness that sometimes frightened her. She,
too, was aware--and sometimes afraid--of drab years running out into
nothingness.

Hollister sat beside her visualizing interminable to-morrows in which
there would be no Doris Cleveland; in which he would go his way vainly
seeking the smile on a friendly face, the sound of a voice that
thrilled him with its friendly tone.

He took her hand and held it, looking down at the soft white fingers.
She made no effort to withdraw it. He looked at her, peering into her
face, and there was nothing to guide him. He saw only a curious
expectancy and a faint deepening of the color in her cheeks.

"Don't go back to the Euclataws, Doris," he said at last. "I love you.
I want you. I need you. Do you feel as if you liked me--enough to take
a chance?

"For it is a chance," he finished abruptly. "Life together is always a
chance for the man and woman who undertake it. Perhaps I surprise you
by breaking out like this. But when I think of us each going separate
ways----"

He held her hand tightly imprisoned between his, bending forward to
peer closely at her face. He could see nothing of astonishment or
surprise. Her lips were parted a little. Her expression, as he looked,
grew different, inscrutable, a little absent even, as if she were lost
in thought. But there was arising a quiver in the fingers he held
which belied the emotionless fixity of her face.

"I wonder if it is such a desperate chance?" she said slowly. "If it
is, why do you want to take it?"

"Because the alternative is worse than the most desperate chance I
could imagine," he answered. "And because I have a longing to face
life with you, and a dread of it alone. You can't see my ugly face
which frightens off other people, so it doesn't mean anything to you.
But you can hear my voice. You can feel me near you. Does it mean
anything to you? Do you wish I could always be near you?"

He drew her up close to him. She permitted it, unresisting, that
strange, thoughtful look still on her face.

"Tell me, do you want me to love you--or don't you care?" he demanded.

For a moment Doris made no answer.

"You're a man," she said then, very softly, a little br