He stood silently in front of her and waited--so near to heaven, nearer than he knew, yet separated from it by the deep gulf of a woman's invincible determination, and that woman to other women as a volcano to a candle. "My friend," she said at last, and her voice was full and strong again, "you know to what my life is dedicated." She did not look at him, but at the portraits on the wall. "To that end I am prepared to sacrifice myself, body and soul, and these other things are not for me. You are poor, I am poor. Poverty ties our hands. With all your help I could do little of all that cries aloud to be done. Yet I want your help. Will you work with me still for the people, Paul Ivanuitch--in spite of this--in spite of--of all?" "I would lay down my life for you, Hope Ivanovna. You know it." "I know it. I know it. Even though I----" "Even though you marry Serge Palma's millions, Hope Ivanovna." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Ah!" "He was here. He will be back presently. God help us all. Why does He permit these things to be?" "If the sacrifice of one can help the many, it is right to make it, Paul. Palma's millions may help to break the fetters of a nation. What am I that I should withhold myself?" "You are the sacrifice," he said sadly, and bent and kissed her hand, and went quietly out. Hope sat silently gazing at the portraits on the wall--past them, at what she had put from her--past that, at what lay before her. And her eyes were sad in spite of the spirit that was in her--nay, because of it. For she knew, as well as any, where that path would probably lead her. Old Masha came in presently, and eyed her anxiously as she announced Serge Palma. Hope's face was grave and composed as his keen glance swept it. There was an afterglow in the great dark eyes which he took to himself, and courage therewith. "You are welcome, Serge Petrovitch," said Hope. "Ah!" said Palma, with a humorous twinkle. "Condolences, then, to friend Paul," to which her only answer was a slight lift of the level brows. "You know what brings me, Hope Ivanovna," he said in reply. "I am no student and have no gift of words. Will you be my wife?" She looked at him quietly, and then asked, "Are you sure you know what that means, Serge Petrovitch?" "What it means? To be my wife? I know what it means to me, Hope Ivanovna." "I must be sure of that. Listen to me. You know that I work among the people." "Every one knows it," he nodded. "Since ever I can remember, the thought of the people under the yoke has weighed upon me, and my heart has groaned with them. My father died in Schlusselburg, as all the world knows. His only crime was the desire to raise the people out of the slough. My mother went before he did. The same blow killed her. There they are on the wall, and night and day they cry to me to help the work on." "It is a good work."