ut a few steps to him--the space between the open door and
the hearth rug on which he stood--and it had taken her but a few seconds
to cross it, but in that brief interval the heavens had opened above
her. The old Harry was there--the smile--the flash in the eyes--the joy
of seeing her--the quick movement of his hand in gracious salute; then
there had followed a sense of his strength, of the calm poise of his
body, of the clearness of his skin. She saw, too, how much handsomer he
had grown,--and noted the rough sailor's clothes. How well they fitted
his robust frame! And the clear, calm eyes and finely cut features--no
shrinking from responsibility in that face; no faltering--the old ideal
of her early love and the new ideal of her sailor boy--the one Richard's
voice had conjured--welded into one personality!

"I heard you had just been in to see Uncle George, Kate, and I tried to
overtake you."

Not much: nothing in fact. Playwriters tell us that the dramatic
situation is the thing, and that the spoken word is as unimportant
to the play as the foot-lights--except as a means of illuminating the
situation.

"Yes--I have just left him, Harry. Uncle George looks very badly--don't
you think so? Is there anything very serious the matter? I sent Ben to
Dr. Teackle's, but he was not in his office."

He had moved up a chair and sat devouring every vibration of her lips,
every glance of her wondrous eyes--all the little movements of her
beautiful body--her dress--the way the stray strands of hair had escaped
to her shoulders. His Kate!--and yet he dare not touch her!

"No, he is not ill. He took a severe cold and only needs rest and a
little care. I am glad you went and--" then the pent-up flood broke
loose. "Are you glad to see me, Kate?"

"I am always glad to see you, Harry--and you look so well. It has been
nearly three years, hasn't it?" Her calmness was maddening; she spoke as
if she was reciting a part in which she had no personal interest.

"I don't know--I haven't counted--not that way. I have lain awake too
many nights and suffered too much to count by years. I count by--"

She raised her hand in protest: "Don't Harry--please don't. All the
suffering has not been yours!" The impersonal tone was gone--there was a
note of agony in her voice.

His manner softened: "Don't think I blame you, Kate. I love you too much
to blame you--you did right. The suffering has only done me good--I am
a different man from the one