been blind and she understood quite clearly. She sat down upon a low seat, from which she could see him, her hands clasped on her knee.
"I knew," she said at last, "that it would come some day—I knew that it would."
"Did you?" he answered in the same dreamy way. "I did not. I did not even hope for it. I do not comprehend it even now."
"I do," she returned, "quite well."
He scarcely seemed to hear her.
"I hoped for nothing," he said. "And now—I am madly happy."
There was nothing more for her to say. She had a fancy that perhaps in the morning he would have forgotten that he had spoken. It seemed as if even yet he was hardly conscious of her presence. But before she went away she asked him a question.
"Where did you put the model?"
He gave a feverish start.
"Where?" And falling back into his previous manner—"I took it to the chapel yard. I knew they would not go there. There was space enough behind the—the head-stone and the old wall for it to stand, and the grass grew long and thick. I left it there."
"It was a safe place," she answered. "When shall you bring it back?"
He sighed impatiently.
"Not yet," he said. "Not just yet. Let it stay there a while. I am not—ready for it. Let it stay."
