you know?"

"I think I've always known--not the fact, exactly, but the possibility
of it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a great
deal for each other--not that we ever would, but merely that we might,
under different circumstances. In a way, it was as though a set of
familiar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in a
different light."

"From the first," he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in every
way. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came.
That was mainly responsible for----"

He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, and
went on.

"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. God only knows how
I've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get away
from it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay,
merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make her
happy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feel
that, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and make
it widely known among vineyards, as it has been--for my own sake, and
for yours."

[Sidenote: A Corner Turned]

Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, was
rapt--almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehow
suggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you," she said. The low,
full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion.

There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon one
groping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, while
no less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned a
corner and found everything changed.

"Dear," he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've--" he
stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, so
transcendently above passion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, it
wasn't man and woman--it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I know. Passion isn't love--any more than hunger is, but an
earth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense."

"I could love you always," he returned, "and never so much as touch your
hand or kiss you again."

She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Why
write?"

"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriage
is the earthly sanction of it--or ought to be. If you and I were both
free, and I thought marriage would in any