air, borne upward as from infinite
depths; but her voice would never sound again for him: he knew it
now--never again for him. And yet he paced the floor, listening. The
pain in his heart grew duller at intervals, benumbed by the tension; but
it always returned, sickening him, almost crazing him.

Late in the evening he gave way under the torture--turned coward, and
started to write to her. Twice he began letters--pleading with her to
forget his letter; begging her to come back. And destroyed them with
hands that shook like the hands of a sick man. Then the dull
insensibility to pain gave him a little respite, but later the misery
and terror of it drove him out into the street with an insane idea of
seeking her--of taking the train and finding her.

He throttled that impulse; the struggle exhausted him; and he returned,
listlessly, to the door and stood there, vacant-eyed, staring into the
lamp-lit street.

Once he caught sight of a shadowy, graceful figure crossing the
avenue--a lithe young silhouette against the gas-light--and his heart
stood still for an instant but it was not she, and he swayed where he
stood, under the agony of reaction, dazed by the rushing recession of
emotion.

Then a sudden fear seized him that she might have come while he had been
away. He had been as far as the avenue. Could she have come?

But when he arrived at his door he had scarce courage enough to go in.
She had a key; she might have entered. Had she entered: was she there,
behind the closed door? To go in and find the studio empty seemed almost
more than he could endure. But, at last, he went in; and he found the
studio empty.

Confused, shaken, tortured, he began again his aimless tour of the
place, ranging the four walls like a wild creature dulled to insanity by
long imprisonment--passing backward, forward, to and fro, across, around
his footsteps timing the dreadful monotone of his heart, his pulse
beating, thudding out his doom.

She would never come; never come again. She had determined what was best
to do; she had arrived at her decision. Perhaps his letter had convinced
her,--had cleared her vision;--the letter which he had been man enough
to write--fool enough--God!--perhaps brave enough.... But if what he had
done in his madness was bravery, it was an accursed thing; and he set
his teeth and cursed himself scarce knowing what he was saying.

It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights
to