of womanhood. The longing of all the dead
women of her race flowed through her into the softness of the spring
evening. Things were there which she could know only through her
blood--all the mute patience, all the joy that is half fear, all the
age-long dissatisfaction with the merely physical end of love--these
were in that voiceless entreaty for happiness; and mingled with them,
there were the inherited ideals of self-surrender, of service, pity,
loyalty, and sacrifice.

"I wish I could help you," she said, and her voice thrilled with the
craving to squander herself magnificently in his service.

"You are an angel, and I'm a selfish beast to bring you my troubles."

"I don't think you are selfish--of course you have to think of your
work--a man's work means so much to him."

"It's wonderful of you to feel that," he replied; and, indeed, at the
instant while he searched her eyes in the dusk, the words seemed to him
to embody all the sympathetic understanding with which his imagination
endowed her. How perfectly her face expressed the goodness and
gentleness of her soul! What a companion she would make to a man! What a
lover! What a wife! Always soft, exquisite, tender, womanly to the
innermost fibre of her being, and perfect in unselfishness as all
womanly women are. How easy it would be to work if she were somewhere
within call, ready to fly to him at a word! How glorious to go out into
the world if he knew that she sat at home waiting--always waiting, with
those eyes like wells of happiness, until he should return to her! A new
meaning had entered swiftly into life. A feeling that was like a
religious conversion had changed not only his spiritual vision, but the
material aspect of nature. Whatever happened, he felt that he could
never be the same man again.

"I shall see you soon?" he said, and the words fell like snow on the
inner flame of his senses.

"Oh, soon!" she answered, bending a little towards him while a sudden
glory illumined her features. Her voice, which was vibrant as a harp,
had captured the wistful magic of the spring--the softness of the winds,
the sweetness of flowers, the mellow murmuring of the poplars.

She rose from the bench, moving softly as if she were under an
enchantment which she feared to break by a gesture. An ecstasy as
inarticulate as grief kept him silent, and it was into this silence that
the voice of Abby floated, high, shrill, and dominant.

"Oh, Virginia, I've looked ev