her companion's
attention. She hinted but lightly at her possession of unusual power
over animals, and spoke not at all of the influence she could exert upon
people. Beatrice listened eagerly. She could have told, on her part,
that for years her own life had been dull and empty, and that it was
long since she had talked with any one who had so roused her interest.

At last Unorna was silent. She had reached the period of her life which
had begun a month before that time, and at that point her story ended.

"Then you are not married?" Beatrice's tone expressed an interrogation
and a certain surprise.

"No," said Unorna, "I am not married. And you, if I may ask?"

Beatrice started visibly. It had not occurred to her that the question
might seem a natural one for Unorna to ask, although she had said that
she was alone in the world. Unorna might have supposed her to have lost
her husband. But Unorna could see that it was not surprise alone that
had startled her. The question, as she knew it must, had roused a deep
and painful train of thought.

"No," said Beatrice, in an altered voice. "I am not married. I shall
never marry."

A short silence followed, during which she turned her face away.

"I have pained you," said Unorna with profound sympathy and regret.
"Forgive me! How could I be so tactless!"

"How could you know?" Beatrice asked simply, not attempting to deny the
suggestion.

But Unorna was suffering too. She had allowed herself to imagine that in
the long years which had passed Beatrice might perhaps have forgotten.
It had even crossed her mind that she might indeed be married. But in
the few words, and in the tremor that accompanied them, as well as in
the increased pallor of Beatrice's face, she detected a love not less
deep and constant and unforgotten than the Wanderer's own.

"Forgive me," Unorna repeated. "I might have guessed. I have loved too."

She knew that here, at least, she could not feign and she could not
control her voice, but with supreme judgment of the effect she allowed
herself to be carried beyond all reserve. In the one short sentence her
whole passion expressed itself, genuine, deep, strong, ruthless. She
let the words come as they would, and Beatrice was startled by the
passionate cry that burst from the heart, so wholly unrestrained.

For a long time neither spoke again, and neither looked at the other.
To all appearances Beatrice was the first to regain her self-possession.