rmured.

With all her muscles relaxed, and with him there, she felt as if she
were floating in the clouds.

"It's strange you've always had that notion, because I 'm not
especially good," he replied. "Do you want to go to sleep, or may I
talk a while longer?"

"Please to talk."

"Of course," he ran on meditatively, "something depends upon what you
mean by being good. I used to think it was merely being decent. I've
been that. It happened to be easy. But being good, as I see it now,
is being good when it isn't easy--and then something more."

She was listening with bated breath, because he was voicing her own
thoughts.

"It's being good to others besides yourself," he continued.
"Forgetting yourself for them--when that is n't easy."

"Yes, it's that," she said.

"I don't want to boast," he said; "but, in a way, I come nearer being
good at this moment, than ever before in my life."

"You mean because it's tiresome for you to sit there?"

"Because it's hard for me to sit here when I'd like to be kneeling by
your side, kissing your hand, your forehead, your lips," he answered
passionately.

She started to her elbow.

"I shan't move," he assured her. "But it is n't easy to sit here like
a bump on a log with everything you're starving for within arm's reach."

"Monte!" she gasped. "Perhaps you'd better not talk."

"If it were only as easy to stop thinking!"

"Why don't one's thoughts mind?" she cried. "When they are told what's
right, why don't they come right?"

"God knows," he answered. "I sit here and tell myself that if you
don't love me I should let it go at that, and think the way I did
before the solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over what
wasn't meant to be serious. I've tried, little woman. I tried hard
when I left you with Peter. I could n't do it then, and I can't do it
now. I hear over and over again the words the little minister spoke,
and they grow more wonderful and fine every day. I think he must have
known then that I loved you or he would not have uttered them."

The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the stars.

"Dear wife," he cried, "when are you coming to me?"

He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders against the wall. She
saw his arms folded over his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw
his clenched lips.

"God help me to keep silent," she prayed.

"When are you coming?" he repeated wearily. "Will it be one year or
two years or three