In a storm of despair he spoke: "Laura--Laura, can't you see--how can you let me go on loving you as I do until I am mad! Can't you see that my soul is yours and always has been! You can call it into heights it will never know without you! You--you--O, sometimes I feel that I could pray to you as to God!" He turned to her a face glowing with a white and holy passion, and dropped her hand from his shoulder and did not touch her as he spoke. Their eyes met steadfastly in a silence. Then the girl bowed her head and sobbed. For she knew, even in her teens, she knew with the intuitions that are old as human love upon the planet that she was in the naked presence of an adoring soul. When she could speak she picked up the man's soft white hand, and kissed it. She could not have voiced her eternal denial more certainly. And Morty Sands lifted an agonized face to the stars and his jaws trembled. He had lighted his altar fire and it was quenched. The girl, still holding his hand, said tenderly: "I'm so sorry--so sorry, Morty. But I can't! I never--never--never can!" She hesitated, and repeated, shaking her head sadly, "I never, never can love you, Morty--never! And it's kind--" "Yes, yes," he answered as one who realizes a finality. "It's kind enough--yes, I know you're kind, Laura!" He stopped and gazed at her in the moonlight--and it was as if a flame on the charred altar of his heart had sprung up for a second as he spoke: "And I never--never shall--I never shall love any one else--I never, never shall!" The girl rose. A moment later the youth followed her. Back into its sheath under his countenance his soul slipped, and he stood before the girl smiling a half deprecatory smile. But the girl's face was racked with sorrow. She had seen tragedy. Her pain wounded him and he winced in his heart. Wherefore he smiled quite genuinely, and stepped back, and threw a kiss at the girl as he said: "It's nothing, Laura! Don't mind! It's nothing at all and we'll forget it! Won't we?" And turning away, he tripped down the walk, leaving her gazing after him in the moonlight. At the street he turned back with a gay little gesture, blew a kiss from his white finger tips and cried, "It's nothing at all--nothing at all!" And as she went indoors she heard him call, "It's nothing at all!" She heard him lift his whistle to the tune of the waltz quadrille, but she stood with tears in her eyes until the brave tune died in the distance. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH WE SEE HOW LIFE TRANSLATES ITSELF INTO THE MATERIALISM AROUND IT