him?"

"I love him."

"Then there is nothing at all for me."

She resumed as if she had heard nothing.

"I have lost him for many lives. He stepped above me at once, for he was
clean gold though he fell, and though I have followed I have not found.
But that Buddhist beyond Islamabad--you shall hear now what he said. It
was this. 'The shut door opens, and this time he awaits.' I cannot yet
say all it means, but there is no Lahore for me. I shall meet him soon."

"Vanna, you would not harm yourself again?"

"Never. I should not meet him. But you will see. Now I can talk no more.
I will be there tomorrow when you go, and I will ride with you to the
poplar road."

She passed like a shadow into her little dark cabin, and I was left
alone. I will not dwell on that black loneliness of the spirit, for
it has passed--it was the darkness of hell, a madness of jealousy, and
could have no enduring life in any heart that had known her. But it was
death while it lasted. I had moments of horrible belief, of horrible
disbelief, but however it might be I knew that she was out of reach for
ever. Near me--yes! but only as the silver image of the moon floated in
the water by the boat, with the moon herself cold myriads of miles away.
I will say no more of that last eclipse of what she had wrought in me.

The bright morning came, sunny as if my joys were beginning instead of
ending. Vanna mounted her horse and led the way from the boat. I cast
one long look at the little Kedarnath, the home of those perfect weeks,
of such joy and sorrow as would have seemed impossible to me in the
chrysalis of my former existence. Little Kahdra stood crying bitterly on
the bank--the kindly folk who had served us were gathered saddened and
quiet. I set my teeth and followed her.

How dear she looked, how kind, how gentle her appealing eyes, as I drew
up beside her. She knew what I felt. She knew that the sight of little
Kahdra crying as he said good--bye was the last pull at my sore heart.
Still she rode steadily on, and still I followed. Once she spoke.

"Stephen, there was a man in Peshawar, kind and true, who loved that
Lilavanti who had no heart for him. And when she died, it was in his
arms, as a sister might cling to a brother, for the man she loved had
left her. It seems that will not be in this life, but do not think I
have been so blind that I did not know my friend."

I could not answer--it was the realization of the utmost I could hope