e would be very
beautiful when she was dead.

The idea took root in her mind; for it afforded her an inward emotion
which touched her strangely and cost her nothing. It gained in
fascination as she allowed it to come back when it would, and the
details of death came vividly before her imagination, as she had read of
them in books,--her own white face, the darkened room, the candles, Paul
Griggs standing motionless beside her body.

One day he looked from his work and saw tears on her cheeks. He dropped
his pen as though something had struck him unawares; and he was beside
her in a moment, looking anxiously into her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, and his hands were on hers and pressed them.

"It is nothing," she answered. "It is natural, I suppose--"

"No. It is not natural. You are unhappy. Tell me what is the matter."

"It is foolish," she said, turning her face from him. "I see you working
so hard day after day. I am a burden to you--it would be better if I
were out of the way. You are working yourself to death. If you could see
your face sometimes!" And more tears trickled down.

His strong hands shook suddenly.

"I am not working too hard--for me," he answered, but his voice trembled
a little. "One of your tears hurts me more than a hundred years of hard
work. Even if it were true--I would rather die for you than live to be
the greatest man that ever breathed--without you."

She threw her arms about his neck, and hid her face upon his shoulder.

"Tell me you love me!" she cried. "You are all I have in the world!"

"Does it need telling?" he asked, soothing her.

Then all at once his arms tightened so that she could hardly draw breath
for a moment, and his head was bent down and rested for an instant upon
her neck as though he himself sought rest and refuge.

"I think you know, dear," he said.

She knew far better than he could tell her, for the truth of his
passion shook the dramatic and artificial fabric of her own to its
foundations; and even as she pressed him to her, she felt that secret
repugnance which those who do not love feel for those who love them
overmuch. It was mingled with a sense of shame which made her hate
herself, and she began to suffer acutely.

When she thought of Reanda, as she now often did, she longed for what
she had felt for him, rather than for anything she had ever felt for
Paul Griggs. In the pitiful reaching after something real, she groped
for memories of true tendern