In the interim she seemed quite satisfied and happy, busy with the simple and pretty things she now cared for; but toward the third day of his absence she usually became restless, asking for him, and why he did not come.

And then they telegraphed him, and he left everything and went, white-faced, stern of lip, to endure the most dreadful ordeal a man may face--to force the smile to his lips and gaiety into the shrinking soul of him, and sit with her in the pretty, sunny room, listening to her prattle, answering the childish questions, watching her, seated in her rocking-chair, singing contentedly to herself, and playing with her dolls and ribbons--dressing them, undressing, mending, arranging--until the heart within him quivered under the misery of it, and he turned to the curtained window, hands clinching convulsively, and teeth set to force back the strangling agony in his throat.
And the dreadful part of it all was that her appearance had remained unchanged--unless, perhaps, she was prettier, lovelier of face and figure than ever before; but in her beautiful dark eyes only the direct intelligence of a child answered his gaze of inquiry; and her voice, too, had become soft and hesitating, and the infantile falsetto sounded in it at times, sweet, futile, immature.
* * * * * Thinking of these things now, he leaned heavily forward, elbows on the little table.

And, suddenly unbidden, before his haunted eyes rose the white portico of Silverside, and the greensward glimmered, drenched in sunshine, and a slim figure in white stood there, arms bare, tennis-bat swinging in one tanned little hand.
Voices were sounding in his ears--Drina's laughter, Lansing's protest; Billy shouting to his eager pack; his sister's calm tones, admonishing the young--and through it all, _her_ voice, clear, hauntingly sweet, pronouncing his name.
And he set his lean jaws tight and took a new grip on his pipe-stem, and stared, with pain-dulled eyes, at the white wall opposite.
But on the blank expanse the faintest tinge of colour appeared, growing clearer, taking shape as he stared; and slowly, slowly, under the soft splendour of her hair, two clear eyes of darkest blue opened under the languid lids and looked at him, and looked and looked until he closed his own, unable to endure the agony.
But even through his sealed lids he saw her; and her clear gaze pierced him, blinded as he was, leaning there, both hands pressed across his eyes.
Sooner or later--sooner or later he must write to her and tell what must be told.

How to do it, when to do it, he did not know.

What to say he did not know; but that there was something due her from him--something to say, something to confess--to ask her pardon for--he understood.
Happily for her--happily for him, alas!--love, in its full miracle, had remained beyond her comprehension.