no more.
But not to see him at all was worse than the pain of seeing him. That
empty box! And all through the night she thought of him in his hotel,
only a street or two distant. She could not go through it again, nor
could she think what would have happened if they had not met. Something
had prompted her to go out one afternoon; she was weak with weeping and
sick with love, and, feeling that there are burdens beyond our strength,
she had walked with her eyes steadily fixed before her ... and somehow
she was not surprised when she saw him coming towards her. He joined her
quite naturally, as if by appointment, and they had walked on,
instinctively finding their way out of the crowd. They had walked on and
on, now and then exchanging remarks, waiting for a full explanation,
wondering what form it would take. Cypresses and campanili defined
themselves in the landscape as the evening advanced. Further on the
country flattened out; there were urban gardens and dusty little
vineyards. They had sat on a bench; above them was a statue of the
Virgin; she remembered noticing it; it reminded her of her scapular, but
nothing had mattered to her then but Owen. He said--

"Well Evelyn, when is all this nonsense going to cease?"

"I don't know, Owen; I'm very unhappy."

The sense of reconciliation which overtook her was too delicious to be
resisted, and she remembered how all the way home she had longed for the
moment when she would throw herself into his arms. He had not reproved
her nor reproached her; he had merely forgiven her the pain she had
caused him. There were sounds of children's voices in the air and a glow
of light upon the roofs. Their talk had been gentle and philosophic; she
had listened eagerly, and had promised to shun influences which made her
uselessly unhappy. And he had promised her that in time to come she
would surely succeed in freeing herself from the tentacles of this
church, and that the day would come when she would watch the Mass as she
would some childish sport. "Though," he added, smiling, "it is doubtful
if anyone can see his own rocking-horse without experiencing a desire to
mount it." Nearly three years had passed since that time in Florence,
and she was now going to put the strength of her agnosticism to the
test.

"They have not built a new entrance," she remarked to herself, as the
coachman reined up the chestnuts before the meagre steps. "But
alterations are being made," she thought, catchin