Tell me." He had lifted his head at her first word, hesitatingly, as though dazed.
"Could you tell me ?" she asked faintly.
"Tell you what, child ?" "Why you are so silent with me; what has crept in between us?
I"-- the innocent courage sustaining her--"I have not changed--except a little in--in the way you wished.

Have you ?" "No," he said in an altered voice.
"Then--what is it?
I have been--you have left me so much alone this winter--and I supposed I understood--" "My work," he said; but she scarcely knew the voice for his.
"I know; you have had no time.

I know that; I ought to know it by this time, for I have told myself often enough.

And yet--when we _are_ together, it is--it has been--different.

Can you tell me why?
Do you think me changed ?" "You must not change," he said.
"No," she breathed, wondering, "I could not--except--a little, as I told you." "You must not change--not even that way!" he repeated in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him--and believed she had misunderstood him.
"I did not hear you," she said faintly.