ight off."

"But nothing ever comes out as you expect."

"That gives you a chance to try again."

"You can't keep that up forever?"

"Forever and ever," he nodded. "It's what makes life worth living."

"Peter," she said below her breath, "you're wonderful."

He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In
touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself
steadier and calmer than she had been for a week.

"What if you make mistakes, Peter?"

"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in
your voice, Marjory. Have--you been learning?"

His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the
darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair
arms.

"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily.

She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to
him--as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and
strength. It would be easier--she was ashamed of the thought, but it
held true--because he could not see. Almost--she could tell him of
herself and of Monte.

"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately.

With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was
the old ring in his voice--the old masterful decision that used to
frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he
might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she
would go.

"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that
are in you--all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a
woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all."

He could not see her cheeks--she was thankful for that. But the wonder
was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like
this, not knowing of this last week.

"You remember all the things I said to you--before you left?"

"Yes."

"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back.
Then I shall say them again, and perhaps--"

"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried.

"You mean that now--"

"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could
listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if
it were possible to share the light with you I--I would n't share the
dark too."

"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he
answered gently.

Then she saw his lips tigh