his eyes flutter open. This time she faced them
with her fists clenched by her side. What a difference those eyes made
in him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he was a man. He
grew taller, bigger, older, while she who had been leading him about
shrank into insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy than
ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will power she held up her
head and faced him as if she were facing the sun.

For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for
months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see
her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips
which he had only felt--all that held him silent. But he saw something
else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had
seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she
had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman.
Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth--something he knew
nothing about.

"Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left
untold."

She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he
pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth.

"Yes, Peter," she answered.

"I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great
grief or a great joy."

"The two so often come together," she trembled.

"Yes," he nodded; "I think that is true. Perhaps they belong together."

"I have only just learned that," she said.

"And you've been left with the grief?"

"I can't tell, Peter. Sometimes I think so, and then again I see the
justice of it, and it seems beautiful. All I 'm sure of is that I 'm
left alone."

"Even with me?"

"Even with you, Peter."

He passed his hand over his eyes.

"This other--do I know him?" he asked finally.

"Yes."

"It--it is Covington?"

"Yes."

She spoke almost mechanically.

"I--I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should
have known."

"That is why I did n't wish you to see me--so soon," Marjory said.

"Covington!" he repeated. "But what of the other woman?"

She took a long breath.

"I--I'm the other woman," she answered.

"Marjory!" he cried. "Not she you told me of?"

"Yes."

"His wife!"

"No--not that. Merely Mrs. Covington."

"I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!" He checked
himself abruptly.

"We were