ined her point, and led him to see that Dorothea
was to be treated leniently, which was sufficient for the moment.

"Now," she finished, rising, "I think I'll take your advice, and go and
rest till she comes. That's my door, just opposite. I chose the room for
its convenience in receiving Dorothea. You'll be sure to call me, won't
you, the minute you hear the sound of wheels?"

He had sat gazing up at her, but now he, too, rose. It was a minute at
which their common anxiety regarding Dorothea slipped temporarily into
the background, allowing the main question at issue between them to
assert itself; but it asserted itself silently. He had meant to speak,
but he could only look. She had meant to withdraw, but she remained to
return his look with the lingering, quiet, steady gaze which time and
place and circumstance seemed to make the most natural mode of
expression for the things that were vital between them. What passed thus
defied all analysis of thought, as well as all utterance in language,
but it was understood by each in his or her own way. To her it was the
greeting and farewell of souls in different spheres, who again pass one
another in space. For him it was the dumb, stifled cry of nature, the
claim of a heart demanding its rightful place in another heart, the
protest of love that has been debarred from its return by a cruel code
of morals, a preposterous convention, grown suddenly meaningless to a
woman like her and to a man like him. Something like this it would have
been a relief to him to cry out, had not the strong hand of custom been
upon him and forced him to say that which was far below the pressure of
his yearning.

"This isn't the time to talk about what I owe you," he said, feeling the
insufficiency of his words; "it's too much to be disposed of in a few
phrases."

"On the contrary, you owe me nothing at all."

"We'll not dispute the point now."

"No; but I'd rather not leave you under a misapprehension. If I've done
anything to-night--been of any use at all--it's been simply because I
loved Dorothea--and--and--it was right. When it was in my power, I
couldn't have refused to do it for any one--for any one, you
understand."

"Oh yes, I understand perfectly; but _any one_, in the same
circumstances, would feel as I do. No, not as I do," he corrected,
quickly. "No one else in the world could feel--"

"I'm really very tired," she said, hurriedly; "I'll go now; but I count
on you to call me."