pleadingly. "Be silent!" she whispered "Oh, be silent!"
"Far away from London, from its darkness, its weariness, its soul-killing noise and crowding," the man continued, as though speaking aloud to himself. "There is silence from the crash of human tongues; only God speaks in the moving of the leaves and the falling of the waters."
"And the countless eyes," Nora whispered, as though afraid of being heard, "the eyes always watching for me to fall—they are not there, nor the ears always astrain to hear my dying cry."
The man shuddered. He drew nearer and, laying his hand upon her arm, gazed intently into her eyes.
"Wherever you go, eyes are watching you," he said, "ears are listening to you, tongues are ready to be busy with your misfortunes in this great city. But at home there are no eyes to watch you save of those who love you. There are no ears to listen save of those to whom your voice is music. There are no tongues to speak of you except with kindliness."
