her hands away from her eyes and
looked at him.

"Why? Do I know? Tears are not words."

. . . . .

I watched her cry--drown herself in a flood of tears. It is a great
thing to be in the presence of a rational being who cries. A weak,
broken creature shedding tears makes the same impression as an all-
powerful god to whom one prays. In her weakness and defeat Amy was
above human power.

A kind of superstitious admiration seized me before this woman's face
bathed from an inexhaustible source, this face sincere and truthful.

. . . . .

She stopped crying and lifted her head. Without his questioning her
again she said:

"I am crying because one is alone.

"One cannot get away from one's self. One cannot even confess
anything. One is alone. And then everything passes, everything
changes, everything takes flight, and as soon as everything takes
flight one is alone. There are times when I see this better than at
other times. And then I cannot help crying."

She was getting sadder and sadder, but then she had a little access of
pride, and I saw a smile gently stir her veil of melancholy.

"I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would
not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of
lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all
alone."

Disturbed to see her growing distress, he tried to raise her spirits.

"We cannot say that, we who have reshaped our destiny. You, who have
achieved a great act of will--"

But what he said was borne away like chaff.

"What good was it? Everything is useless. In spite of what I have
tried to do, I am alone. My sin cannot change the face of things.

"It is not by sin that we attain happiness, nor is it by virtue, nor is
it by that kind of divine fire by which one makes great instinctive
decisions and which is neither good nor evil. It is by none of these
things that one reaches happiness. One /never/ reaches happiness."

She paused, and said, as if she felt her fate recoiling upon her:

"Yes, I know I have done wrong, that those who love me most would
detest me if they knew. My mother, if she knew--she who is so
indulgent--would be so unhappy. I know that our love exists with the
reprobation of all that is wise and just and is condemned by my
mother's tears. But what's the use of being ashamed any more? Mother,
if you knew, you would have pity on my happiness."

"You are naughty," he mu