"No; it isn't dangerous," he a.s.sured her, "because I'm out of danger now.

Thank the Lord, that's all over. I don't have to live with a great hulking terror behind me any longer. I'm a man like any other. You can't imagine what it means to be yourself, and not to care who knows it. I'm afraid I parade my name just like a boy with a new watch, who wants to tell every one the time. So far no one has paid any particular attention; but I dare say that will come. Is Evie here?"

"She's not here--to-day."

"Why not?" he asked, sharply. "She said she would be. She said she'd come to town--"

"She did come to town, but she thought she'd better not--stay."

"Not stay? Why shouldn't she stay? Is anything up? You don't mean that Miss Jarrott--?"

"No; Miss Jarrott had nothing to do with it. I know her brother has written to her, in the way you must be prepared for. But she couldn't have kept Evie from waiting for you, if Evie herself--"

"Had wanted to," he finished, as she seemed to hesitate at the words.

Since she said nothing to modify this a.s.sertion, she hoped he would comprehend its gravity. Indeed, he seemed to be trying to attenuate that when he spoke next.

"I suppose she had engagements--or something."

"She did have engagements--but she could have put them off."

"Only she didn't care to. I see."

She allowed him time to accept this fact before going on.

"Her return to Lenox," she said then, "wasn't because of her engagements."

"Then it must have been because of me. Didn't she want to see me?"

"She didn't want to tell you what she felt she would have to say."

"Oh! So that was it."

He continued to sit looking at her with an expression of interrogation, though it was evident from his eyes that his questions had been answered.

They sat in the same relative positions as on the night of their last long talk together, he in his big arm-chair, she in her low one. It struck her as strange--while he stared at her with that gaze of inquiry from which the inquiry was gone--that she, who meant so little to his inner life, should be called on again to live through with him minutes that must forever remain memorable in his existence.

"Poor little thing! So she funked telling me."

The comment was made musingly, to himself, but she took it as if addressed to her.

"She wasn't equal to it."

"But you are. You're equal to anything. Aren't you?" He smiled with that peculiar twisted smile which she had noticed at other times, when he was concealing pain.

"One is generally equal to what one has to do. All the same," she added, with an impulse she could not repress, "I'm sorry to be always a.s.sociated in your mind with things that must be hard for you."

"You're a.s.sociated in my mind with everything that's high and n.o.ble.

That's the only memory I shall ever have of you. You've been with me through some of the dark spots of my life; but if it hadn't been for you I shouldn't have found the way."

"Thank you. I'm glad you can say that. I should be even more sorry than I am to give you this news to-day, if it were not that perhaps I can explain things a little better than Evie could."

"I don't imagine that they require much explanation. I've seen from Evie's letters that--"

"That she was afraid of--the situation. She hasn't changed toward you."

"Do you mean by that that she still--cares anything about me?"

"She says she does."

"But you don't believe her."

"I'm not ent.i.tled to an opinion. It's something you and she must work out together. All I can do is to tell you what may give you a little hope."

She watched for the brightening effect of these words upon him, but he sat looking absently at the floor, as if he had not heard them.

"Evie is afraid," she continued, "but I think it's only fair to remember that the circ.u.mstances might well frighten any young girl of her sort."

He showed that he followed her by nodding a.s.sent, though he neither lifted his head nor spoke.

"She wanted me to tell you that while the--the trial--and other things--are going on, she couldn't be engaged to you--I'm using her own expression, but she didn't say that, when it was all over and you were free, she wouldn't marry you. I noticed that."

He looked up quickly.

"I'm not sure that I catch your drift."

"I mean that when it's all over, and everything has ended as you hope it will, it may be quite possible for you to win her back."

He stared at her, with an incredulous lifting of the eyebrows

"Would you advise me to try?"

"It isn't a matter I could give advice about. I'm showing you what might be possible, but--"

"No, no. That sort of thing doesn't work. There was just a chance that Evie might have stuck to me spontaneously but since she didn't--"

"Since she didn't--what?"

"She was quite right not to. I admit that. It's in the order of things.

She followed her instinct rather than her heart--I'm ready to believe that--but there are times in life when instinct is a pretty good guide."

"Am I to understand that you're not--hurt?--or disappointed? Because in that case--"

"I don't know whether I am or not. That's frank. I'm feeling so many things all at once that I can hardly distinguish one emotion from another, or tell which is strongest. I only know--it's become quite plain to me--that a little creature like Evie couldn't find a happy home in my life, any more than a humming-bird, as you once called her, could make its nest among crags."

"Do you mean by that," she asked, slowly, "that you're--definitely--letting her go?"

"I mean that, Evie being what she is, and I being what life has made me--Isn't it perfectly evident? Can you fancy us tied together--now?"

"I never could fancy it. I haven't concealed that from you at any time.

But since you loved her, and she loved you--"