of feeling; and then, moved by a passion of sympathy, he called
her by every endearing name his mind could catch at or his voice utter.
The depth of his nature responded in all its volume, as she lay there
weeping for joy, in his arms, and in her coming to him as she had done
he beheld then only an exquisite proof of her nobility of soul, of the
unworldly innocence for which he loved her. In that embrace, for that
one supreme instant, their spirits touched more nearly than they had
ever done in the past or would ever do again in the future--for even
while he held her the tide of being receded from its violence and they
drew apart.

"If you had only waited I should have come to you at once," he said,
looking at her in a rapture which, though he himself was ignorant of it,
struggled against a disappointment because she had shown herself to be
closer to his own level than he had believed.

Drawing slightly away Laura stood shaking the tear drops from her
lashes, while she regarded him with her radiant smile. The misty
brightness of her eyes showed to him in an almost unreal loveliness.

"I didn't care--nothing mattered to me," she answered, "it made no
difference what the world said--nor whether I lived or died."

Though the flattery of her coming moved him strongly, he found himself
wishing while she spoke that she had not proved herself to be so
ardently regardless of conventions--that she had appeared, for once,
less natural and more worldly-wise.

"Well, I'll take you home now," he said, smiling; then as he saw her
gaze, passing curiously about the room, rest enquiringly upon the
portrait of Madame Alta, he broke into a laugh which sounded, for all
its pleasantness, a little strained.

"That goes out of the way as soon as I can get something to cover the
spot," he remarked, adding gayly, "Symonds says he will finish his
portrait of me next week, and I'll hang it there until you claim it."

Her face had clouded, and without looking at him she moved toward the
door. "Are you really glad that I came?" she asked abruptly, turning
upon the threshold.

"Glad! My darling girl, I'm simply overjoyed. You gave me the most
miserable morning of my life."

It was the truth--he knew it for the truth while he uttered it, but, in
his heart of hearts, he felt without confessing it to himself, that his
love had dropped back from that divine height beyond which mere human
impulse becomes ideal passion.

CHAPTER IX

O