t last step, I lift every stone, I turn over every
page, I listen to every word which may be spoken by those who have the
right to speak? That is why I am here. On Monday morning I leave. On
Monday night I speak to the people in Manchester."

She listened to him very much as a prisoner at the bar might listen to a
judge who reasons before he pronounces sentence, and her face became as
the face of that prisoner might become, who detects some leniency of
tone, some softening of manner, on the part of the arbiter of his fate.
She ceased to tremble, her lips relaxed, her eyes grew softer and
softer. She came a step nearer, resting her finger-tips upon a little
table, her body leaning towards him. He had a queer vision of her for a
moment--no longer the prophetess, a touch of the Delilah in the soft
sweetness of her eyes.

"Oh, forgive me!" she begged. "I was foolish. Forgive me!"

He smiled at her reassuringly.

"There is nothing to forgive," he insisted. "You asked for an
explanation to which you had a right. I have tried to give it to you.
Indeed, Julia, you need have no fear. Whatever I decide in life will be
what I think best for our cause."

The shadow of fear once more trembled in her tone.

"Whatever you decide," she repeated. "You will not--you will not let
them call you a deserter? You couldn't do that."

"There isn't anything in the world," he told her quietly, "which has the
power to tempt me from doing the thing which I think best. I cannot
promise that it will be always the thing which seems right to this
committee of men," he added, touching the envelope with his forefinger.
"I cannot promise you that, but it should not worry you. You yourself
are different. It is my hope that soon you will understand me better.
I think that when that time comes you will cease to fear."

The light in her face was wonderful.

"Oh, I want to!" she murmured. "I want to understand you better. There
hasn't been anything in life to me like the sound of your name, like the
thought of you, since first I understood. Perhaps I am as bad as
Aaron," she sighed. "I, too, alas! am your hopeless slave."

He moved a step nearer. This time she made no effort to retreat. Once
more she was trembling a little, but her face was soft and sweet. All
the pallor, the hard lines, the suffering seemed to have passed
miraculously out of it. A soul--a woman's soul--was shining at him out
of her eyes. It wasn't her physical self that spoke--in a