as though a vast pall, cold and chill, had fallen. It was madness—a black, yawning gulf of utter madness—and to its bottomless depths he had hurled himself—and her. A taste of joy, divine beyond all telling, a glimpse into a world of rapture, of enchantment, through gates of dazzling glory, had been his—but now—God pity him—the price.
He faced her, pale, haggard, his eyes full of the misery that was upon him.
"Janet! Janet!"—grief, self-condemnation, hopelessness, all were in his voice; and wrung from him in a hoarse cry came the words that had flashed upon him when he had stepped out from the elm upon the lawn and she had seen him: "Janet—what have I done!"
Her hands felt up and rested upon his face.
"I know," she said softly. "But we could not undo that now if we would. I know—so well. You never meant that I should see you—but, oh, I am so glad, so glad I did. I have wanted you so and—and now you have come and—and I will never let you go again."
His fingers brushed back the hair from her forehead and smoothed it tenderly.
"I would to God," he said in a choked voice, "that it were so—that I should never leave you."
"I can never let you go," she said, and her hands pressed tightly on his cheeks. "I can never let you go—alone—for it would be—forever."
He drew her to him, drew her head to his shoulder again, holding her tightly, thinking to soothe her.
She held quite still for an instant; then she raised her head, and her eyes as they met his were blinded with
