e shadow
casts around her, I see in her a more human and a truer truth."

After a moment's contemplation, Rose said, gravely:

"I will never hide one of my thoughts from you."

Her statement makes me smile; but why disappoint her? She did not yet
know that those who are most sincere find it more difficult than the
others to say what they think. Words, in their souls, are like climbing
plants which, sown by chance in the middle of a roadway, waver and
grope, send out tendrils here and there in despair and end by entangling
themselves with one another. Whereas most people, just as we provide
supports for flowers, bestow certainties and truths upon their words to
which they cling, the sincere refuse to yield to any such illusions.
They hesitate, stammer and contradict themselves without ceasing....

7

I drew her head down on my knees; and, softly, in little sentences
interrupted by long pauses, we spoke of the new life that was opening
before her. Soon she said nothing more. The fire went out, the room
became dark and a clock outside struck six. I whispered:

"I am going, darling...."

She did not move and I saw that she was asleep. Then I gently released
myself, put a pillow under her head and a wrap over her shoulders and
was almost at the door, when suddenly I pictured her awakening. It would
not do for her to open her eyes in the dark, to feel lost and alone in
an unknown house. I lit the lamp, drew the blinds and made up the fire.

Roseline was sleeping soundly. Her breathing was hardly perceptible. At
times, a deep sigh sent a quiver through her placid beauty, even as a
keener breath of air ripples the surface of a pool.

What would she do if she should soon awake?... I looked around.
Everything was peaceful and smiling; the flowers looked fresh and
radiant in the light; the books on the table seemed to be waiting.... I
searched among them for some page to charm her imagination and guide her
first dreams along pleasant paths....

CHAPTER IV

1

Rose is sitting by the fire with her bare feet in slippers and a
dressing-wrap flung loosely round her.

"Are you ill?"

"No," she says, smiling.

And her cool hands, pressing mine, and her gay kisses on my cheeks are
no less reassuring than the actual reply.

"But why are you not dressed?"

"I don't know; time passed and I let them bring my lunch up to me."

I look round the darkened bedroom. Through the blind which I lowered
yesterday, the