or not, continually stabbed by some heart-breaking
difference between herself and another?

Having the gift of detachment immeasurably beyond woman, man may
separate himself from his grief, contemplate it calmly in its various
phases, and, with a mighty effort, throw it aside. Woman, on the
contrary, hugs hers close to her aching breast and remorselessly turns
the knife in her wound. It is she who keeps anniversaries, walks in
cemeteries, wears mourning, and preserves trifles that sorrowfully have
outlasted the love that gave them.

If she could only see him once! And yet, what was there to say or what
was there to do, beyond sobbing out her desolate heart in the shelter of
his arms? Could she tell him that she was miserable because she had come
face to face with a woman more beautiful than she; that she doubted his
loyalty, his devotion? From some far off ancestor, her woman's dower of
pride and silence suddenly asserted itself in Rosemary. When he wanted
her, he would find her. If he missed her signal, fluttering from the
birch tree in the Spring wind, he could write and say so. Meanwhile she
would not seek him, though her heart should break from loneliness and
despair.

[Sidenote: Worn and Weary]

Craving the dear touch of him, the sound of his voice, or even the sight
of his tall well-knit figure moving along swiftly in the dusk, she
compelled herself to accept the situation, bitterness and all. Across
her open window struck the single long deepening shadow that precedes
daybreak, then grey lights dawned on the far horizon, paling the stars
to points of pearl upon dim purple mists. Worn and weary, Rosemary slept
until she was called to begin the day's dreary round of toil, as
mechanical as the ticking of a clock.

Cold water removed the traces of tears from her cheeks, but her eyes
were red and swollen. The cheap mirror exaggerated her plainness, while
memory pitilessly emphasised the beauty of the other woman. As she
dressed, the thought came to her that, no matter what happened, she
could still go on loving him, that she might always give, whether or not
she received anything at all in return.

"Service," she said to herself, remembering her dream, "and sacrifice.
Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer." If this indeed was love, she
had it in fullest measure, so why should she ask for more?

[Sidenote: Waiting for Breakfast]

"Rosemary!"

"Yes," she called back, trying hard to make her voice even, "I