In the silence that followed, Ruth found the drowsy eyes looking deep into her own, as if reading her innermost thoughts. She recalled the singular power he had exercised as a boy--of seeing into other people's minds, apparently without effort, and answering questions before they were asked. At this present moment she had reasons for keeping her own thoughts to herself. She avoided his gaze, and looked away, over the water, toward the west. Too late, it seemed, for he said, quietly: "It would have been fairer to me if you had sent it." "Sent what?" "The second letter, the one you wrote to somebody else." Ruth's little figure stiffened. Color flew to her cheeks, and there were signs of anger as she faced him. "How do you know I wrote a second letter?" Taken aback by this sudden change of manner, he hesitated, then he smiled, but with an obvious effort. And the smile was not of mirth. It was a smile of the joyless type, often employed to carry favor. "Why--I--er--I don't know exactly." "Yes you do know. You pried into my thoughts. It's your old trick. And a hateful habit." "I am sorry, Ruth. I know it's a hateful habit." "Then why do you do it?" "I don't do it. I didn't mean to do it then. It's not a habit any more. Years ago I gave it up. But now, I was so anxious, so very anxious to know your real thoughts--to know if you really had no love for me at all--that I couldn't resist. I swear I will not do it again. Truly I almost never do it. But now, at the critical moment of my life, when it's a matter of life or death, the temptation was too great." "It's an exasperating, dishonorable trick, and I don't like it." "I am sorry, Ruth. Please forgive me." "And you are very much mistaken if you think any woman with a particle of pride is going to marry a man who can spy into her secret thoughts--and merely by staring at her." Her eyes still avoided him. She looked over the garden, toward the cloisters, anywhere except at his face. When she spoke again, however, there was more sympathy in her voice. "But that doesn't matter. It has always been my intention to remain here." "You don't really mean it?" "Indeed I do! It is no sudden decision. I am very happy here." He turned partly away, and said nothing. She glanced at his face, and its expression would have softened the Rock of Ages. There was no doubt of his sincerity; nor of his silent agony beneath the blow he had just received. No words were uttered. He simply stood and gazed--at nothing.