The next time she saw Dartrey Fenellan, she was assured of him, as being the man who might be spoken to; and by a woman: though not by a girl; not spoken to by her.

The throb of the impulse precipitating speech subsided to a dumb yearning.

He noticed her look: he was unaware of the human sun in the girl's eyes taking an image of him for permanent habitation in her breast.

That face of his, so clearly lined, quick, firm, with the blue smile on it like the gleam of a sword coming out of sheath, did not mean hardness, she could have vowed.

O that some woman, other than the unhappy woman herself, would speak the words denied to a girl! He was the man who would hearken and help.