“Oh, dear, no,” she said, simply, without a shade more or less of feeling in face or voice. “If I were a man, yes, I would go; but as it is, no. Be grateful that you are a man and have no hampering, cramping sex limitations to work against in the public mind if not in your own. You are free to go where you will and to do what you wish, and if it be but half-way well done, both fools and wise will chirrup your praises. One thing I ask of you. Throughout your life, never lose an opportunity of helping womankind to a freer, better, broader life. Do this in memory of me, and if I meet you in the future, either here or on the other side of life--should there be another side--I shall not fail to thank you.” “I promise, and doubtless shall do more than that, in memory of you.” The last words had a quaver of agony in them, which she did not sense. “I have been growing restless of late, too. Some day I shall be gone--perhaps before long.” She looked afar off with dreamy eyes as she spoke, and Kendall’s heart ached as he realized at last, that in the future of her dreams he had no part or place. “Do not forget, wherever you may be, that I am always your loyal, humble servant,” he said, gently. “I am sure of that, and I thank you,” she answered, with kindness in her voice. It was like the man that he did not try to relieve his almost bursting heart by talking of his love for her, even though it was without hope, but he understood none of the arts of Eros, and was disciplined in repression. In truth, it was preposterous that he should dream of winning this woman, and in a vague way he always knew it; yet he had dreamed. From the day he first saw her she had enthralled him, an achievement of which she seemed altogether unconscious, though everybody else read it clearly enough. They had met daily in their common home, a boarding-house, for four years. They had enjoyed concerts, plays and lectures together; had walked and talked together and been good comrades and yet had never agreed. Nothing under the sun did they see from the same point of view, and the topic upon which they thought alike had never been found. In spite of this, Kendall patiently worshipped at her shrine. Had he not been of the steady, hopeful, never-give-up brand of lover, he would have lost heart long before. But he had the confidence of the self-satisfied and shortsighted, and a heart that held on to its fancies with the desperate clutch that wins sometimes when finer methods fail. To his credit be it said that while his devotion was open and above-board, for all the world to see, he was never obtrusive. Early in his acquaintance with his torturer he had learned to take a third or fourth place about her candle and make no fuss. He was at her service whenever she needed him, and always out of the way when she didn’t need him.