he said, "what made me tell you about Artemidorus. It was a
rather silly, childish sort of make-believe, and I wouldn't have told
anyone else for the world; not even my father. How did I know that you
would sympathise and understand?"

She asked the question in all simplicity with her serious, grey eyes
looking inquiringly into mine. And the answer came to me in a flash,
with the beating of my own heart.

"I will tell you how you knew, Ruth," I whispered passionately. "It was
because I loved you more than anyone in the world has ever loved you,
and you felt my love in your heart and called it sympathy."

I stopped short, for she had blushed scarlet and then turned deathly
pale. And now she looked at me wildly, almost with terror.

"Have I shocked you, Ruth, dearest?" I exclaimed penitently, "have I
spoken too soon? If I have, forgive me. But I had to tell you. I have
been eating my heart out for love of you for I don't know how long. I
think I have loved you from the first day we met. Perhaps I shouldn't
have spoken yet, but, Ruth, dear, if you only knew what a sweet girl you
are, you wouldn't blame me."

"I don't blame you," she said, almost in a whisper; "I blame myself. I
have been a bad friend to you, who have been so loyal and loving to me.
I ought not to have let this happen. For it can't be, Paul; I can't say
what you want me to say. We can never be anything more to one another
than friends."

A cold hand seemed to grasp my heart--a horrible fear that I had lost
all that I cared for--all that made life desirable.

"Why can't we?" I asked. "Do you mean that--that the gods have been
gracious to some other man?"

"No, no," she answered, hastily--almost indignantly, "of course I don't
mean that."

"Then it is only that you don't love me yet. Of course you don't. Why
should you? But you will, dear, some day. And I will wait patiently
until that day comes and not trouble you with entreaties. I will wait
for you as Jacob waited for Rachel; and as the long years seemed to him
but as a few days because of the love he bore her, so it shall be with
me, if only you will not send me away quite without hope."

She was looking down, white-faced, with a hardening of the lips as if
she were in bodily pain. "You don't understand," she whispered. "It
can't be--it can never be. There is something that makes it impossible,
now and always. I can't tell you more than that."

"But, Ruth, dearest," I pleaded despairingly, "m