misled by the passive manner in which he permitted her to
withdraw from him.

"Yes, you shall have time," he said. "I only want you to know that I am
here to help you in any way I can."

She remained silent so long that he became impatient again. "Did you find
your father very ill?" he hazarded.

"My father? Oh! No ... I can hardly say. He seemed changed. Or perhaps I
only imagined that. Perhaps he really is very ill."

Another long silence ensued. Harboro was searching in a thousand dark
places for the cause of her abnormal condition. There were no guide-posts.
He did not know Sylvia's father. He knew nothing about the life she had
led with him. He might be a cruel monster who had abused her--or he might
be an unfortunate, unhappy creature, the very sight of whom would wound
the heart of a sensitive woman.

He leaned forward and took her arm and drew her hand into his. "I'm
waiting, Sylvia," he said.

She turned toward him with a sudden passion of sorrow. "It was you who
required me to go!" she cried. "If only you hadn't asked me to go!"

"I thought we were both doing what was right and kind. I'm sorry if it has
proved that we were mistaken. But surely you do not blame me?"

"Blame you? No ... the word hadn't occurred to me. I'm afraid I don't
understand our language very well. Who could ever have thought of such a
meaningless word as 'blame'? You might think little creatures--ants, or
the silly locusts that sing in the heat--might have need of such a word.
You wouldn't _blame_ an apple for being deformed, would you?--or the hawk
for killing the dove? We are what we are--that's all. I don't blame any
one."

The bewildered Harboro leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "We are
what we make ourselves, Sylvia. We do what we permit ourselves to do.
Don't lose sight of that fact. Don't lose sight of the fact, either, that
we are here, man and wife, to help each other. I'm waiting, Sylvia, for
you to tell me what has gone wrong."

All that she grasped of what he said she would have denied passionately;
but the iron in his nature, now manifesting itself again, she did not
understand and she stood in awe of it.

"Give me until to-morrow," she pleaded. "I think perhaps I'm ill to-night.
You know how you imagine things sometimes? Give me until to-morrow, until
I can see more clearly. Perhaps it won't seem anything at all by
to-morrow."

And Harboro, pondering darkly, consented to question her no more that
night.