gone from him, out of his life, and between them was a barrier he could never pass—a barrier of his own raising.
And so he made no answer, for indeed he had not heard her; but she was coming toward him now, her hands outstretched in a wondering way, wistfully, pleadingly, as though to hold back a refutation that would change the dawning light upon her face to dismay and grief again.
"It—it is true," she faltered. "It has come to you too—this change, this new life that has come to me. It is true—I can see it in your face."
"Yes; it is true," he answered, in a low voice.
"Thank God!" she whispered—and hid her face in her hands—and presently he heard her sob again.
A tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again—and then he spoke.
"Helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that I can make to you—nothing that I can do to change what I would give my soul to change. I know what it meant to you to send Thornton away to-night, for I love you now as you love him—I know why you did it, and—"
She was staring at him a little wildly—her hands pressed against her cheeks.
