o see deeper, to find motive, not in
acts that shake the faith, but in character which needs no
explanation, which--"

He paused, disturbed. Then he raised his head, as though not conscious
of what was breaking the course of his thoughts. Presently he realised
a low, hurried knocking at his door. He threw a hand over his eyes, and
sprang up. An instant later the figure of a woman, deeply veiled, stood
within the room, beside the table where he had been writing. There was
silence as they faced each other, his back against the door.

"Oh, do you not know me?" she said at last, and sank into the chair
where he had been sitting.

The question was unnecessary, and she knew it was so; but she could
not bear the strain of the silence. She seemed to have risen out of the
letter he had been writing; and had he not been writing of her--of what
concerned them both? How mean and small-hearted he had been, to have
thought for an instant that she had not the highest courage, though in
going she had done the discreeter, safer thing. But she had come--she
had come!

All this was in his eyes, though his face was pale and still. He
was almost rigid with emotion, for the ancient habit of repose and
self-command of the Quaker people was upon him.

"Can you not see--do you not know?" she repeated, her back upon him now,
her face still veiled, her hands making a swift motion of distress.

"Has thee found in the past that thee is so soon forgotten?"

"Oh, do not blame me!" She raised her veil suddenly, and showed a face
as pale as his own, and in the eyes a fiery brightness. "I did not know.
It was so hard to come--do not blame me. I went to Alexandria--I felt
that I must fly; the air around me seemed full of voices crying out. Did
you not understand why I went?"

"I understand," he said, coming forward slowly. "Thee should not have
returned. In the way I go now the watchers go also."

"If I had not come, you would never have understood," she answered
quickly. "I am not sorry I went. I was so frightened, so shaken. My only
thought was to get away from the terrible Thing. But I should have been
sorry all my life long had I not come back to tell you what I feel, and
that I shall never forget. All my life I shall be grateful. You have
saved me from a thousand deaths. Ah, if I could give you but one life!
Yet--yet--oh, do not think but that I would tell you the whole truth,
though I am not wholly truthful. See, I love my place in