his eyes were still upon her, calm, thoughtful,
dispassionate. The colour began to rise in her cheek. She looked down
and tapped upon the carved arm of the chair with an impatient gesture
familiar to her.

"And what is that one prayer?" asked the Wanderer. "I knew the song long
ago, but I have never guessed what that magic prayer can be like."

"It must be a woman's prayer; I cannot tell you what it is."

"And are you so sad to-day, Unorna? What makes you sing that song?"

"Sad? No, I am not sad," she answered with an effort. "But the words
rose to my lips and so I sang."

"They are pretty words," said her companion, almost indifferently. "And
you have a very beautiful voice," he added thoughtfully.

"Have I? I have been told so, sometimes."

"Yes. I like to hear you sing, and talk, too. My life is a blank. I do
not know what it would be without you."

"I am little enough to--those who know me," said Unorna, growing pale,
and drawing a quick breath.

"You cannot say that. You are not little to me."

There was a long silence. He gazed at the plants, and his glance
wandered from one to the other, as though he did not see them, being
lost in meditation. The voice had been calm and clear as ever, but it
was the first time he had ever said so much, and Unorna's heart stood
still, half fire and half ice. She could not speak.

"You are very much to me," he said again, at last. "Since I have been
in this place a change has come over me. I seem to myself to be a man
without an object, without so much as a real thought. Keyork tells me
that there is something wanting, that the something is woman, and that
I ought to love. I cannot tell. I do not know what love is, and I never
knew. Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a body
and an intelligence without a soul. Even the intelligence I begin to
doubt. What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings? Why have I
been in every place, in every city? What went I forth to see? Not even a
reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands of
books, known men in every land--and for what? It is as though I had once
had an object in it all, though I know that there was none. But I have
realised the worthlessness of my life since I have been here. Perhaps
you have shown it to me, or helped me to see it. I cannot tell. I ask
myself again and again what it was all for, and I ask in vain. I am
lonely, indeed, in the world, but it has been my