bitter young face was softened; for the moment she seemed almost a child, even though a child—whose life had been clouded by the shadow of sin and wrong.
"I think—he would," he said, slowly.
"And I have got into the habit of coming here when I was lonely or—at my worst."
"You are lonely often, I dare say," he returned, wearily. "I wish it could be helped."
"It is nothing new," she replied, with something of her old manner, "and there is no help for it."
But her touch upon the grass was a caress. She smoothed it softly, and moved with singular gentleness a few dead leaves which had dropped upon it.
"When I come here I am—better," she said, "and—less hard. Things do not seem to matter so much—or to look so shameful."
A pause followed, which she herself broke in upon.
"I have thought a great deal of—what he left unfinished," she said. "I have wished that I might see it. It would be almost as if I had seen him."
"I can show it to you," Murdoch answered. "It is a little thing to have caused so great pain."
They said but little else until they rose to go. As he sat watching the long grass wave under the warm wind, Murdoch felt that his excitement had calmed down. He was in a cooler mood when they got up at last. But before they turned away the girl lingered for a moment, as if she wished to speak.
"Sometimes," she faltered,—"sometimes I have thought you had half forgotten."
"Nay," he answered, "never that, God knows!"
"I could not bear to believe it," she said, passionately. "It would make me hate you!"
