"Here are those stones; I never wore them. I wanted to, God knows, but I couldn't. Take them, I beg of you." She thrust the case into my pocket. "He made me take them, you understand; made me do everything from the first. I loved him once, long ago, and since then I couldn't get away. I can't explain." She was pleading as I never heard woman plead before. "Forgive me--tell me you forgive me--speak to me." The grip on my arm loosened and her voice dropped. "Oh! God, to have brought this on you when I loved you!" The words sounded in my ears, but made no impression. It all seemed very, very strange. Why should she say such things to me? She must be mistaken--must take me for another. I broke away from her grasp, and groped staggeringly toward the door. A weariness intense was upon me and I wanted to be home alone. As I moved away, I heard behind me a swift step as though she would follow, and my name called softly, then another movement, away. Mechanically I turned at the sound, and saw her profile standing clear in the open window-frame. Realization came to me with a mighty rush, and with a cry that was a great sob I sprang toward her. Suddenly the window became clear again, and through the blackness that formed about me I dimly heard a great wail of horror arise from the street below. * * * * * There was no other entry save the hasty scrawl in pencil. THE TOUCH HUMAN "Good-night." A lingering of finger tips that touched, as by accident; a bared head; the regular tap of shoes on cement, as a man walked down the path. "Good-night--and God bless thee," he repeated softly, tenderly, under his breath, that none but he might hear: words of faith spoken reverently, and by one who believes not in the God known of the herd. "Good-night--and God bless thee," whispered the woman slowly; and the south wind, murmuring northward, took the words and carried them gently away as sacred things. The woman stood thinking, dreaming, her color mounting, her eyes dimming, as she read deep the mystery of her own heart. They had sat side by side the entire evening, and had talked of life and of its hidden things; or else had remained silent in the unspoken converse that is even sweeter to those who understand each other. She had said of a mutual friend: "He is a man I admire; he has an ideal." "A thing but few of earth possess." "No; I think you are wrong. I believe all people have ideals. They must; life would not be life without." "You mean object rather than ideal. Does not an ideal mean something beautiful--something beyond--something we'd give our all for? Not our working hours alone, but our hours of pleasure and our times of thought. An ideal is an intangible thing--having much of the supernatural in its make-up; 'tis a fetish for which we'd sacrifice life--or the strongest passion of life,--love."