"Why did you come back?" I ask, smiting my two hands together, "why did you do it?"
"Why did I? Because if I had not I should have gone mad, or died of longing to hear the sound of your voice, and for a look of your sweet face."
"Then you did not love her?" the erring words leap straight from my heart to my lips without my own volition.
"Love her?" He looks down at the pool at our feet, looks up at God's heavenly azure shining through the exquisite leaves. "This is my life with that woman"—he makes a gesture towards the black, foul waters;—"that,”—with a gesture towards the sky,—"is my love for you. Tell me," he says,—"tell me how have these years passed with you?"
"They have not killed me," I say, turning away my white face, "and (with a little laugh) they have not made me thin, but———"
Why do I lift my desolate, tearless eyes to those dark, weary ones, heavy with the love that must not, dare not be given to me?
He draws a deep breath and turns as pale as death.
Suddenly I step out of the shadow into the sunlight, and he follows me. Half way across the orchard I turn to him and speak.
"You have come back, Paul, which you should not have done, without warning; and we have met, as we should not have done. But this is our last talk together: henceforward we are acquaintances and meet as such. If ever we fall again into such words as we have fallen into to-day, I shall go away, and never come back while you are here. You will not drive me away, will you? Paul! Paul! you are stronger than I—help me to be strong too!" By which it will appear that my long night of fierce struggle with my unruly heart has availed me but little.
"Am I stronger?" he says, standing still. "Whether I am or not you shall not have appealed to me in vain; have no fear—I will not drive you away."
