o my brain for ever. I suppose because they were
so true."

"Oh, no!" Lettice murmured involuntarily, and looking at him with
tear-dimmed eyes. She was intensely interested in his story, and Alan
Walcott felt assured by her face that the sympathy he longed for was not
withheld.

"My wound was soon healed," he said when the details of that terrible
scene were told; "but I was not in a hurry to come back to England. When
I did come back, I avoided as much as possible the few people who knew
me; and I have never to this moment spoken of my deliverance, which I
suppose they talk of as my loss."

"They think," said Lettice, slowly, for she was puzzled in her mind, and
did not know what to say, "that you are a widower?"

"And what am I?" he cried, walking up and down the room in a restless
way. "Am I not a widower? Has she not died completely out of my life? I
shall never see her again--she is dead and buried, and I am free? Ah, do
not look at me so doubtfully, do not take back the sympathy which you
promised me! Are you going to turn me away, hungry and thirsty for
kindness, because you imagine that my need is greater than you thought
it five minutes ago? I will not believe you are so cruel!"

"We need not analyze my feelings, Mr. Walcott. I could not do that
myself, until I have had time to think. But--is it right to leave other
people under the conviction that your wife is actually dead, when you
know that in all probability she is not?"

"I never said she was dead! I never suggested or acted a lie. May not a
man keep silence about his own most sacred affairs?"

"Perhaps he may," said Lettice. "It is not for me to judge you--and at
any rate, you have told me!"

She stood up and looked at him with her fearless grey eyes, whilst his
own anxiously scanned her face.

"I am very, very sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, I
will. You must not doubt my sympathy, and I shall never withdraw my
promise. But just now I cannot think what it would be best to do or say.
Let me have time to think."

She held out her hand, and he took it, seeing that she wanted him to go.

"Good-bye!" he said. "God bless you for being what you are. It has done
me good to talk. When we meet again--unless you write and give me your
commands--I promise to do whatever you may tell me."

And with that, he went away.

CHAPTER X.

THE POET SPEAKS.

As soon as her visitor was gone, Lettice fell into a deep study. She had
tw