each other—'twixt him and me a great gulf lies. I wonder if I shall always be this dumb, senseless stone . . . will the spirit ever wake in me, and cry, and rend me?
"If I had to choose between dying now this minute and living over again the last hour, I would choose to die," he says slowly. "I have suffered enough, God knows, since you and I stood here together, but never half of what I did when I heard your footsteps coming over the snow, and dared not turn to face you; and then, when you thrust your little hands into mine, and ran on in your loving welcome . . . when I think of the future, of how I shall never watch for your coming, never see you stepping across the rye to meet me; never, in summer or seed time, or winter or harvest, listen for your steps and the sound of your gentle voice . . . we shall miss each other's morning kiss, child . . . at eventide we shall hold out despairing arms to each other the days will be empty and dreary . . . we shall call upon each other across the silence that gives back no answer. . . ."
His words enter my ears, but do not stir my heart; by-and-by they will come back to me perhaps. I shall have plenty of time after he is gone to muse over and be sorry for them—yes, all the rest of my life.
"We need not have quarrelled about the books—need we?" I ask with a faint smile. "I shall never have a chance of throwing any more at you."
"Hush!" he says sharply. "You used to say we were too happy. . . ."
"Paul," I say, shivering, "when do you go back to your wife?"
"Go back to her?" he asks, frowning. "Did I hear you aright?"
"Yes. Of course you will go back to her—you are bound to."
"Am I?" he says between his teeth. "I think not."
"She could not force you to marry her," I say steadily; "you
