g!" he
cried, and tried to draw her to him. She resisted.

"Our love, the one sacred thing of our very own," he pleaded, "is in
peril." He saw it now. "Can you not see? Even if it is woman against
woman, what right have you, Priscilla, to cloud and hurt our love?"

"It is not--woman against woman--any more." The words came sweetly,
almost joyously; something like renunciation tinged them. "It is woman
_for_ woman until men will take us by the hands, trustingly, faithfully,
and work with us for what belongs equally to us both!"

The radiance of the uplifted eyes frightened Travers. So might she look,
he thought, had she passed through death and come out victorious.

"Now, just for a time," the tense, thrilling voice went on, "she and
I--women--must stand alone, and do our best as we see it. It is no good
leaving it to--to any man. I see that! And our love, yours and mine! Oh!
dear man of my heart, that can never die or be hurt. It is yours, mine!
God gave it. God will not take it away. God will not take Margaret's
either. She will understand, and, even alone, far, far from _her_ love,
she will be true, as I will be. That is what it means to us!" Then she
paused and smiled at Travers as across a widening chasm.

"I--am going now!"

"Going? My beloved--going--where?"

"To Margaret."

"You--dare not! You shall not! You are--mad!"

"No. I am--going, because, as things are, I cannot--trust you, even you!
That is our penalty for the world's wrong. Long, long ago some one--oh!
it was back in the days when I did not know what life meant--some one
told me--never to let any one kill my ideal! No one ever has! It goes on
before, leading and beckoning. I must follow. I do not know where he is,
he who told me, but I know, as sure as I know that I shall always love
you, that he is following _his_ ideal, and living true and sure. Good
night."

Unable to think or act, Travers saw Priscilla take up her still damp coat
and hat. Like a man in a nightmare he saw her turn a deadly white face
upon him, and then the door closed and he was alone in her little room!

He looked about, dazed and emotionless. He felt _her_ in every touch
of the lonely place; her books, her little pictures, herself! Some women
are like that: they leave themselves in the presence of them they
love--forever!

"Kill her ideal!" The words rang in the empty corners of his heart and
mind. "Somewhere he is following his ideal, and living true and sure!"

Un