er window on the storm in his soul, and felt safe in resuming her
identity. All through this walk, ever since the hand-incident, she
had been hard at work ignoring suggestions of her inner mind that
her companion was a loaded gun, and not quite safe to play with. Now
she felt she had established a sort of _modus vivendi_ which would
not involve her in the horrors of a formal engagement, with the
concomitants of dissension and bitterness that she had noticed in
friends' families on such occasions. Why shouldn't she and poor Prosy
walk about together as much as they liked--yes, even call in at a
church and get married if they liked--and have no one else fussing
over them? The sort of semi-trothplight she had just hushed into
silence would do for a good long time to come, because she understood
Prosy down to the ground, and, of course, she knew that his
mistrusting her was out of the question.

As for the doctor, his was the sort of temperament one often meets
with in very fair men of his type--intensely shy, but with a backing
of resolution on occasion shown, bred of a capacity for high-strung
passion. He had formed his intention fully and clearly of telling
Sally the whole truth before they arrived at St. Sennans that evening,
and had been hastened to what was virtually an avowal by a premature
accident, as we have seen. Now the murder was out, and he was walking
home slowly beside the marvel, the mystery, that had taken possession
of the inmost recesses of his life--very much in her pocket, if the
truth must be told--with an almost intolerable searching fire of joy
finding every moment a new untouched recess in his innermost heart.
He could have fallen at her feet and kissed them, could have poured
out his very soul in passionate protestations, could and would have
done anything that would have given a moment's respite to the tension
of his love for this all-absorbing other creature that was absolutely
here--a reality, and no dream--beside him. But he was going to be
good, at her bidding, and remain a sane and reasonable general
practitioner, however much his heart beat and his head swam. Poor
Prosy!

No! On consideration, Agur, the son of Jakeh, didn't know all about
it. He only knew the Oriental temperament. He was quite up to date,
no doubt, but neither he nor Ithiel nor Ucal nor King Solomon could
reckon with spiritual volcanoes. Probably nothing in the world could
have explained to either of them the meaning of o