her full in the face--"I cannot go."

No need to explain that simple word. No need to interpret the swift
glance that their eyes exchanged--the eager, the pitiful glance. They
both knew. It was not the work. It was not the suffering of the world.
It was the pain in their own hearts, and the awful chasm that his holy
vows had put between them. They stood so only an instant. He was
trembling in the extort to master himself, and in a second she felt the
hot blood rising to her face. Her woman's wit was the first to break the
hopeless situation. She turned, and hailed a passing car. "I cannot
walk any farther. Good-night." And she was gone.

The priest stood as if a sudden blow had struck him, following the
retreating car till it was out of sight, and then turned homeward, dazed,
and with feeble steps. What was this that had come to him to so shake
his life? What devil was tempting him to break his vows and forsake his
faith? Should he fly from the city and from his work, or should he face
what seemed to him, in the light of his consecration, a monstrous
temptation, and try to conquer himself? He began to doubt his power to
do this. He had always believed that it was easy to conquer nature.
And now a little brown woman had taught him that he reckons ill who
leaves out the strongest human passion. And yet suppose he should break
his solemn vows and throw away his ideal, and marry Ruth Leigh,
would he ever be happy? Here was a mediaeval survival confronted by a
nineteenth-century skepticism. The situation was plainly insoluble. It
was as plainly so to the clear mind of the unselfish little woman without
faith as it was to him. Perhaps she could not have respected him if he
had yielded. Strangely enough, the attraction of the priest for her and
for other women who called themselves servants of humanity was in his
consecration, in his attitude of separation from the vanities and
passions of this world. They believed in him, though they did not share
his faith. To Ruth Leigh this experience of love was as unexpected as it
was to the priest. Perhaps because her life was lived on a less exalted
plane she could bear it with more equanimity. But who knows? The habit of
her life was endurance, the sturdy meeting of the duty of every day, with
at least only a calm regard of the future. And she would go on. But who
can measure the inner change in her life? She must certainly be changed
by this deep experience, and, terrible as it was,