e--and he was forced to reassure himself that nothing had
changed during his absence, that she was still all his own.

When the agitation of these first, few, speechless minutes had
subsided, a great tenderness seized Louise; freeing one hand, she
smoothed back his hair from his forehead, with movements each of which
was a caress. As for him, his first impetuous rush of feeling was
invariably followed by an almost morbid pity for her, which, in this
form, was a new note in their relation to each other, or a harking back
to the oldest note of all. When he considered how dependent she was on
him, how her one desire was to have him with her, he felt that he could
never repay her or do enough for her: and, whatever his own state of
mind previous to coming, when once he was there, he exerted himself to
the utmost, to cheer her. It was always she who needed consolation;
and, by means of his endearments, she was petted back to happiness like
a tired child.

In his efforts to take her out of herself, Maurice told her how he had
spent the day: where he had been, and whom he had met--every detail
that he thought might interest her. She listened, in grateful silence,
but she never put a question. This at an end, he returned once more, in
a kind of eternal circle, to the one subject of which she never
wearied. He might repeat, for the thousandth time, how dear she was to
him, without the least fear that the story would grow stale in the
telling.

And once here, amidst the deep tenderness of his words, he felt her
slowly come to life again, and unfold like a flower. After the long,
dead day, Louise was consumed by a desire to drain such moments as
these to the dregs. She did not let a word of his pass unchallenged,
and all that she herself said, was an attempt to discover some spasm of
mental ecstasy, which they had not yet experienced. Sometimes, the
feeling grew so strong that it forced her to give an outward sign.
Slipping to her knees, she gazed at him with the eyes of a faithful
animal. "What have I done to make you look at me like that?" asked
Maurice, amazed.

"What can I do to show you how I love you? Tell me what I can do."

"Do?--what do you want to do? Be your own dear self--that's all, and
more than enough."

But she continued to look beseechingly at him, waiting for the word
that might be the word of her salvation.

"Haven't you done enough already, in giving yourself to me?" he asked,
seeing how she hung on hi