He saw her try to find her voice and her senses, and with something of his old radiance, he said-- "I'm a brute. I reckon I don't know how to make love. I've startled you." "Ah, shure, ye don't know what ye're saying," she whispered; "the likes o' me ain't good enough." "Hush, hush," he answered, "don't say foolish things." She gasped and shook her head. "Ye shouldn't tempt me so. It's crool. Ye shouldn't tempt me so." With a self-abandonment and a humility which he never afterward forgot, as her life and colour came back Molly said under her breath-- "Take me as I am, shure, if I'm the least bit of good to ye. I love ye enough for both." He exclaimed and kissed her. Dreams of women! Visions of the ecstasy of first love, ideals and aspirations, palpitating, holy, the young man's impassioned dream of The Woman, the Only Woman, the notion and conception that the man of nature and of talent and of keen imagination sleeps upon and follows and seeks and seeks and follows all his life, from boyhood to the grave--where were they then? He had brushed his aunt's cheek, he had touched her hand and trembled; now he kissed fresh young lips that had yearned for his, and he gave his first embrace to woman, put his arms round Molly Shannon and her young body filled them. As she had said, she had love enough for both. He felt a great gratitude to her, a relaxation of his tense senses, a melting of his heart, and his tenderness was deep for her when his next kiss met her tears. CHAPTER XVIII He returned to Nut Street dazed, excited but less sentimentally miserable and more profoundly touched. He had made himself a mechanical career; he had assumed the responsibilities of a man. He might have been a miserable failure as a sculptor, perhaps he would be a good mechanic. Who knows where any flight will carry a man? Making his life, married and founding a home, he would be a factor in the world's progress, and a self-supporting citizen. He tried to fire himself with this sacrifice. At any rate, in order to save his body he had lost his soul--that is, his spiritual soul. "Is not the life more than the meat?" In the recesses of his artist's mind a voice which he had strangled tried to tell him that he had done his soul a great, great wrong. Nevertheless, a solemn feeling of responsibility and of manhood came upon him, a grave quiet strength was his, and as he journeyed back to his lodgings, he did not then regret. Mrs. Kenny and her husband and the children were in the kitchen as he passed and the landlady called out something, but he did not hear for he was half-way upstairs. As he opened the door and went into his room he saw some one was standing by the window--no, leaning far out of the window, very far; a small figure in a black dress. "Bella!" he cried.