told
Allan that she must speak with him after dinner. Our beautiful old house
branched out from a circular hall with great arched doors at either end;
and it was through the rear doorway that always in summer, after dinner,
we passed out into the garden adjoining. As usual, therefore, when the
hour came, Theresa led the way. That dreadful daytime brilliance that in
my present state I found so hard to endure was now becoming softer. A
delicate, capricious twilight breeze danced inconsequently through
languidly whispering leaves. Lovely pale flowers blossomed like little
moons in the dusk, and over them the breath of mignonette hung heavily.
It was a perfect place--and it had so long been ours, Allan's and mine.
It made me restless and a little wicked that those two should be there
together now.

For a little they walked about together, speaking of common, daily
things. Then suddenly Theresa burst out:

"I am going away, Allan. I have stayed to do everything that needed to
be done. Now your mother will be here to care for you, and it is time
for me to go."

He stared at her and stood still. Theresa had been there so long, she so
definitely, to his mind, belonged there. And she was, as I also had
jealously known, so lovely there, the small, dark, dainty creature, in
the old hall, on the wide staircases, in the garden.... Life there
without Theresa, even the intentionally remote, the perpetually
renounced Theresa--he had not dreamed of it, he could not, so suddenly,
conceive of it.

"Sit here," he said, and drew her down beside him on a bench, "and tell
me what it means, why you are going. Is it because of something that I
have been--have done?"

She hesitated. I wondered if she would dare tell him. She looked out and
away from him, and he waited long for her to speak.

The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the
leaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy and
sweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon,
the not yet darkened world seems infinitely greater--a moment when
anything can happen, anything be believed in. To me, watching,
listening, hovering, there came a dreadful purpose and a dreadful
courage. Suppose for one moment, Theresa should not only feel, but _see_
me--would she dare to tell him then?

There came a brief space of terrible effort, all my fluttering,
uncertain forces strained to the utmost. The instant of my struggle was