"No doubt," Percival answered. They were walking slowly through a quiet back street, with a blank wall on one side. "Still, it is hard," he said. There was something so simple and tender in his tone that Judith looked up and met his eyes. She might have read his words in them even if he had not spoken. "Don't pity me, Mr. Thorne," she said. "Why not?" "Oh, because--I hardly know why. I can't stand it when any one is kind to me, or sorry for me, sometimes at Mrs. Barton's. I don't know how to bear it. But it does not matter much, for I get braver and braver when people are hard and cold. I really don't mind that half as much as you would think, so you see you needn't pity me. In fact, you mustn't." "Indeed, I think I must," said Percival. "More than before." "No, no," she answered, hurriedly. "Don't say it, don't look it, don't even let me think you do it in your heart. Tell me about yourself. You listen to me, you ask about me, but you say nothing of what you are doing." "Working." There was a moment's hesitation. "And dreaming," he added. "But you have been ill?" "Not I." "You have not been ill? Then you are ill. What makes you so pale?" He laughed: "Am I pale?" "And you look tired." "My work is wearisome sometimes." "More so than it was?" she questioned anxiously. "You used not to look so tired." "Don't you think that a wearisome thing must grow more wearisome merely by going on?" "But is that all? Isn't there anything else the matter?" "Perhaps there is," he allowed. "There are little worries of course, but shall I tell you what is the great thing that is the matter with me?" "If you will." "I miss you, Judith." The color spread over her face like a rosy dawn. Her eyes were fixed on the pavement, and yet they looked as if they caught a glimpse of Eden. But Percival could not see that. "You miss me?" she said. "Yes." He had forgotten his hesitation and despair. He had outstripped them, had left them far behind, and his words sprang to his lips with a glad sense of victory and freedom. "Must I miss you always?" he said. "Will you not come back to me, Judith? My work could never be wearisome then when I should feel that I was working for you. There would be long to wait, no doubt, and then a hard life, a poor home. What have I to offer you? But will you come?" She looked up at him: "Do you really want me, or is it that you are sorry for me and want to help me? Are you sure it isn't that? We Lisles have done you harm enough: I won't do you a worse wrong still." "You will do me the worst wrong of all if you let such fears and fancies stand between you and me," said Percival. "Do you not know that I love you? You must decide as your own heart tells you. But don't doubt me." She laid her hand lightly on his arm: "Forgive me, Percival." And so those two passed together into the Eden which she had seen. CHAPTER XLIX. HOW THE SUN ROSE IN GLADNESS, AND SET IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.