her ear turned to the road. She had not closed the door; something
within--a hope or a dread--had prevented that. Would he take it as an
invitation to come in? No, no; she was not ready for such an encounter
yet. He might speak Edith's name; Oswald might hear and--with a gasp
she recognised the closeness of his step; heard it lag, almost halt just
where the path to the house ran into the roadside. But it passed on. He
was not going to force an interview yet. She could hear him retreating
further and further away. The event was not for this day, thank God! She
would have one night at least in which to prepare herself.

With a sense of relief so great that she realised, for one shocked
moment, the full extent of her fears, she hastened back into the
sitting-room, with her collection of books and pamphlets. A low voice
greeted her. It came from the adjoining room.

"Doris, come here, sweet child. I want you."

How she would have bounded joyously at the summons, had not that Dread
raised its bony finger in every call from that dearly loved voice. As it
was, her feet moved slowly, lingering at the sound. But they carried her
to his side at last, and once there, she smiled.

"See what an armful," she cried in joyous greeting, as she held out the
bundle she had brought. "You will be amused all day. Only, do not tire
yourself."

"I do not want the papers, Doris; not yet. There's something else which
must come first. Doris, I have decided to let you write to her. I'm so
much better now, she will not feel alarmed. I must--must get a word from
her. I'm starving for it. I lie here and can think of nothing else. A
message--one little message of six short words would set me on my feet
again. So get your paper and pen, dear child, and write her one of your
prettiest letters."

Had he loved her, he would have perceived the chill which shook her
whole body, as he spoke. But his first thought, his penetrating thought,
was not for her and he saw only the answering glance, the patient smile.
She had not expected him to see more. She knew that she was quite safe
from the divining look; otherwise, he would have known her secret long
ago.

"I'm ready," said she. But she did not lay down her bundle. She was not
ready for her task, poor child. She quailed before it. She quailed so
much that she feared to stir lest he should see that she had no command
over her movements.

The man who watched without seeing wondered that she stood so s