sometimes quaint, it was always
artistic. Paul noticed then, and remembered always, a strange pathos in
her look. She seemed for the moment curiously childlike. Her face had
once more lost its colour, and her eyes, which were thick with tears,
were like those of a child grown frightened in loneliness, and searching
doubtfully and almost in terror for the homeward way.

She put out her hands towards him with a gesture of appeal. It seemed as
if she asked his pardon, though why that should be he could not guess,
and as he made a hasty movement towards her she entered the room
suddenly, and thrust the door vehemently behind her so that the corridor
rang with the echo of the sound.

'Paul,' she said, 'Paul!' and sinking on her knees before him, she threw
her arms round him and began to cry bitterly.

He tried to raise her, but her arms clung tightly, and he could do
nothing but stand there awkwardly and smooth her hair with foolish,
half-articulate expressions of sympathy. She cried as if broken-hearted
for a time, and when at last his caressing fingers raised her face
towards his own, her chin and throat were wet with tears, and her eyes
were still brimming. He coaxed her with much difficulty to an arm-chair,
and when he had seated her there he knelt beside her with an arm about
her waist.

'What is it, little woman?' he asked. 'Dear little woman, what is it?'

He had striven in vain with his disengaged hand to draw away the
interlaced fingers she had knitted across her eyes, but at this appeal
she cast her arms abroad and looked at him with a swift intentness
through her tears.

'You mean it?' she asked with an eager fierceness in her eyes and voice.

'Mean it?' he answered. 'What, the dear little woman? Of course I mean
it.'

'Paul,' she said, 'if you will only love me, if you will only strive
with me, I will love and worship you all my days.'

'What can I do?' he asked. 'Tell me, and I will do it'

'Oh!' she cried, beating the air with her hands, 'these moods, these
follies! they are my own fault I am dividing myself from you. I am
breaking my own heart; I am miserable for no reason. Help me, Paul, help
me! Be at least my friend!'

He was not a man to whom such an appeal could be made in vain, and his
heart acquitted him of any falsehood when he assured her that he loved
her, and would yield her any earthly service in his power.

'But, sweetheart,' he said, 'tell me how I am to help you. Don't think
that