"I had an idle fancy that it would be good on this
Christmas night to bare the secrets hidden in here to you,--to
suffer your pure eyes to probe the sorest depths: I thought
perhaps they would have a blessing power. It was an idle fancy.
What is my want or crime to you?"
The answer came slowly, but it did come.
"Nothing to me."
She tried to meet the gaunt face looking down on her with its
proud sadness,--did meet it at last with her meek eyes.
"No, nothing to you. There is no need that I should stay longer,
is there? You made ready to meet me, and have gone through your
part well."
"It is no part. I speak God's truth to you as I can."
"I know. There is nothing more for us to say to each other in
this world, then, except good-night. Words--polite words--are
bitterer than death, sometimes. If ever we happen to meet, that
courteous smile on your face will be enough to speak--God's truth
for you. Shall we say good-night now?"
"If you will."
She drew farther into the shadow, leaning on a chair.
He stopped, some sudden thought striking him.
"I have a whim," he said, dreamily, "that I would like to
satisfy. It would be a trifle to you: will you grant it?--for
the sake of some old happy day, long ago?"
She put her hand up to her throat; then it fell again.
"Anything you wish, Stephen," she said, gravely.
"Yes. Come nearer, then, and let me see what I have lost. A
heart so cold and strong as yours need not fear inspection.
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