e wanted to go.

"Don't you ever wonder what those crickets are saying?" asked Judith,
conscious instinctively that her companion's eyes still burned with the
same light. "Just listen to them."

"I'd rather have you listen to me," said Imrie in a choking voice, as if
struggling to control himself. Suddenly his hand shot out and caught
hers in a grip like iron. "I want to tell you how much I love you!" he
whispered passionately.

She looked at him for a long time without replying, and he could see by
the movement of the shadows on her face, that her lip quivered. Her eyes
glistened, too. Then, very slowly and thoughtfully, she withdrew her
hand.

"It isn't fair, it isn't fair," she repeated dully. "You promised not
to."

"I know, I know--but I can't help it, my darling. I love you so much.
Nothing else matters. I can't help telling you. I looked for you in
church this morning and when I couldn't find you, it was so hard to go
on. I didn't care, after that. It's that way always. With you beside
me--it would be so different. Can't you ... don't you feel ... any
different?"

She shook her head sadly. It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times
harder than all the rest. That he loved her truly, there was no doubt in
her mind. Of the others, she was not so sure. But she did not love him,
and it hurt tremendously to tell him so. She could not tell why. He
always begged her to give a reason, and she never could. He was a good
man, and an attractive man. There was nothing lacking. As candid old
Mrs. Waring had told her, "Don't be a silly, my dear. You could not
possibly do better." She believed that, too. Imrie was as near her
ideal as she had ever ventured to formulate one. And yet....

[Illustration: It was hard to refuse Imrie--a million times harder than
all the rest]

"But I thought ... the last time ..." he was saying. "It seemed as
if ... there was more hope. And now ... it seems as if there was less.
Why, my dearest? Have you changed? What have I done? What haven't I
done? You seem further away from me now than ever ... won't you ever
come to me ... is it always to be 'the desire of the moth for the
star' ... please speak to me, darling ... please...."

His voice broke under the stress of his emotion. Never had she seen him
so moved. She marvelled at it. She had a turbulent wish to ask him why
he never lost himself like that in his pulpit--and immediately
afterwards wondered where such an outrageous, irrever