Then he held her off and looked at her. And as he looked into her eyes, passion melted to tenderness. It was she now--not he; love--not hunger. Holding her face in his two hands, looking at her as if getting something to take away, his white lips murmured words too inarticulate for her to hear. And then again he put his arms around her--all differently. Reverently, sobbingly, he kissed her hair. And then he was gone. He did not come out that Sunday afternoon, but Harold dropped in instead, and talked of some athletic affairs over at the university. She wondered why she did not go crazy in listening to him, and yet she could answer intelligently. It was queer--what one _could_ do. They had come at last to Z. There would be no more work upon the dictionary after that day. And it was raining--raining as in Chicago alone it knows how to rain. They wrote no notes to each other now. It had been different since that day. They made small effort to cover their raw souls with the mantle of commonplace words. Both of them had tried to stay away that last day. But both were in their usual places. The day wore on eventlessly. Those men with whom she had worked, the men of yesterday, who had been kind to her, came up at various times for little farewell chats. The man in the skull cap told her that she had done excellent work. She was surprised at the ease with which she could make decent reply, thinking again that it was queer--what one could do. He was moving. She saw him lay some sheets of yellow paper on the desk in front. He had finished with his “take.” There would not be another to give him. He would go now. He came back to his desk. She could hear him putting away his things. And then for a long time there was no sound. She knew that he was just sitting there in his chair. Then she heard him get up. She heard him push his chair up to the table, and then for a minute he stood there. She wanted to turn toward him; she wanted to say something--do something. But she had no power. She saw him lay an envelope upon her desk. She heard him walking away. She knew, numbly, that his footsteps were not steady. She knew that he had stopped; she was sure that he was looking back. But still she had no power. And then she heard him go. Even then she went on with her work; she finished her “take” and laid down her pencil. It was finished now--and he had gone. Finished?--_Gone?_ She was tearing open the envelope of the letter. This was what she read: “Little dictionary sprite, sunshine vender, and girl to be loved, if I were a free man I would say to you--Come, little one, and let us learn of love. Let us learn of it, not as one learns from dictionaries, but let us learn from the morning glow and the evening shades. But Miss Noah, maker of dictionaries and creeper into hearts, the bound must not call to the free. They might fittingly have used my name as one of the synonyms under that word Failure, but I trust not under Coward.