They paused at the gate. “Thank you for a pleasant afternoon,” said Winfield. “I don't have many of them.” “You're welcome,” returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance. Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. “Miss Thorne,” he said, pleadingly, “please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum, sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be miserable all the rest of your life.” She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armour. “What's the matter with you?” she asked. “I don't know--I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and discontented, and it isn't my way.” Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago, and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. “I know,” she said, in a different tone, “I've felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've been here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you haven't anything to do, but you'll get over it.” “I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me, at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had to give it up.” “Let me read the papers to you,” she said, impulsively, “I haven't seen one for a month.” There was a long silence. “I don't want to impose upon you,” he answered--“no, you mustn't do it.” Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof, and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred. “Let me,” she cried, eagerly; “I'll give you my eyes for a little while!” Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding. Ruth's eyes looked up into his--deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and alight with generous desire. His fingers unclasped slowly. “Yes, I will,” he said, strangely moved. “It's a beautiful gift--in more ways than one. You are very kind--thank you--good night!” VII. The Man Who Hesitates “Isn't fair',” said Winfield to himself, miserably, “no sir, 't isn't fair!” He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun. “If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!”