wanted to tell her of his heart-hunger, of
his loneliness, his gratitude, understanding, reverence, and, above all,
of his love. There was so much that it made him silent.

'Good-bye, Elise,' he said.

'Good-bye,' she answered.

That was the end. Of such paltry substance are words.

'By Gar!' said the French-Canadian, looking after her as she disappeared
down the ward, 'she mak me tink of my leetle girl Marie; only Marie,
mebbe, is only so high, _comme ca_, and got de black hair, so! I am
homeseek. Yes. It mak me verra homeseek. _Godam_!'

V.

She did not come again. Every morning his heart quickened with hope, and
each afternoon grew heavy with discouragement as the hours passed by
without the step he listened for. The arrival of the mail was an instant
of mad expectancy and mute resignation. But every day carried its cargo
of renewed hope, and he grudged the very hours of sleep that separated
him from it.

He wrote to her three times--pleaded with her to come again. He begged
forgiveness for omitted or committed things which might have hurt her,
but no reply came. He thought of writing to Roselawn, fancying she might
have gone there, but he was certain that before the letter could reach
her she would have come again, and they would only laugh at the idea of
any misunderstanding.

He blamed himself for a hundred imaginary crimes. He had not asked her
if she would return. Perhaps he had carelessly uttered words that
wounded her. He knew her pride; knew that after their parting at the
flat it must have been hard for her to make the first move towards
reconciliation--and she might have mistaken his joy for petty personal
triumph.

Or--had he been an utter fool? Was this her punishment of him? With the
consummate artistry of her sex, had she simulated sympathy and
forbearance to make his torture all the more exquisite? He dismissed the
suggestion as something vile, but, feeding on his doubts and longings, it
grew stronger and more insistent with every hour's passing. A hundred
times a day he closed his eyes and lived the sweet memory of her visit;
but with the gathering arraignments of his doubts, he wondered if it had
all been the studied act of the English girl's reprisal on the American
who had dared to challenge her nation.

Weary, weary hours--the inactivity of the body lending fuel to the flames
of his mind. He determined to dismiss her from his thoughts, and with
his power of menta