should have a little share in it if I were here. Are you,"—almost timidly,—"are you tired?"
"Yes," he answered, "I am tired."
"Are you—any nearer?"
"Sometimes I think so, but so did he."
She rose slowly.
"I will go away," she said. "It would only disturb you to know I was here."
She moved a step upward and then paused uncertainly.
"You told me once," she said, "that there was no reason why I should not be as good and happy as any other woman. Are you sure of what you said?"
"For God's sake, do not doubt in that way," he said.
She stood looking down at him, one hand resting upon the balustrade, her dark eyes wild with some strange emotion.
"I lie awake at night a great deal," she said, "and I am always thinking of what has gone by. Sometimes—lately—I have wished that—I had forgiven her."
"I have wished so too," he answered.
"I know that," she returned. "But I did not and it is too late. Everything is over for her and it is too late. For a long time I was glad, but now—I suppose I am repenting. She did not repent. She suffered, but she did not repent. I think I am repenting."
When he returned to his room he found he could not settle down to work again. He walked up and down restlessly for some time, and at last threw himself upon the bed and lay wide awake thinking in the darkness.
It always cost him a struggle to shut out the world and life and concentrate himself upon his labor in those days. A year before it would have been different, now there was always a battle to be fought. There were dreams to be
