de her, devoured her with his
eyes; listened to her footfalls; tried to make talk; but Nan was
silent.

Standing on the wide veranda outside the front door, she assented to
the beauty of the distant illumination but not enthusiastically. De
Spain declared it could be seen very much better from the street
below. Nan thought she could see very well where they stood. But by
this time she was answering questions--dryly, it is true and in
monosyllables, but answering. De Spain leading the way a step or two
forward at a time, coaxed her down the driveway.

She stood again irresolute, he drinking in the fragrance of her
presence after the long separation and playing her reluctance
guardedly. "Do you know," she exclaimed with sudden resentment, "you
make it awfully hard to be mean to you?"

With a laugh he caught her hand and made her walk down the hospital
steps. "You may be as mean as you like," he answered indifferently.
"Only, never ask me to be mean to you."

"I wish to heaven you would be," she retorted.

"Do you remember," he asked, "what we were doing a year ago to-day?"

"No." Before he could speak again she changed her answer: "Yes, I do
remember. If I said 'no' you'd be sure to remind me of what we were
doing. We can't see as well here as we could from the steps."

"But from here, you have the best view in Sleepy Cat of Music
Mountain."

"We didn't come out here to see Music Mountain."

"I come here often to look at it. You won't let me see you--what can I
do but look at where you live? How long are you going to keep me away
from you?"

Nan did not answer. He urged her to speak. "You know very well it is
my people that will never be friendly with you," she replied. "How can
I be?"

They were passing a lawn settee. He sat down. She would not follow.
She stood in a sort of protest at his side, but he did not release her
hand. "I'll tell you how you can be," he returned. "Make me one of
your people."

"That never can be," she declared stubbornly. "You know it as well as
I do. Why do you say such things?" she demanded, drawing away her
hand.

"Do you want to know?"

"No."

"It's because I love you."

She strove to command herself: "Whether you do or not can't make any
difference," she returned steadily. "We are separated by everything.
There's a gulf between us. It never can be crossed. We should both of
us be wretched if it ever were crossed."

He had risen from the bench and caught her hand: "I