Here he stopped, struck by something in Elithe’s face he could not mistake and which awoke an answering chord in him. During the weeks of his isolation in his father’s house he had seen Elithe nearly every day. He had watched for her coming, and missed her when she went away. She had read to him in the Smuggler’s room during his convalescence, and once or twice she had sung to him, just as she had sung to Jack Percy in the miners’ camp at Deep Gulch. He had no evil spirits to be exorcised like Jack, but she had soothed and quieted him until he felt his strength returning and knew he owed it largely to her. He had always been interested in her since he first knew her, and, with the exception of Clarice, had liked her better than any girl he had ever met. Now she stood in a different relation to him. She had been with him in all his trouble and had made it her own. She was necessary to him, and as he looked at her it came to him with a pang that to give himself up to the law was to give her up, too. There would be no more waiting for her coming,—no more readings,—no more talks,—no more anything! His heart had ached when he sent his farewell after Clarice, and it ached nearly as hard now as he thought of losing Elithe. Taking her hands, he said: “God only knows all you have been to me. No sister could have done more. Do you think I can forget that night on the sea when you risked your life for me, or what you have been to me since? One of the hardest things in going to prison will be giving you up, but whether I go for life or for a term of years I know you’ll stand by me. You’ll not forget me. You’ll write to me. You’ll come to see me some time.” “I shall never forget you, wherever you are, whether in prison or at the ends of the earth, and if I can I’ll go to you if you need me,” Elithe answered him. She was greatly excited, and perhaps her words implied more than she really meant, but they brought to Paul a second time a feeling, half of joy, half of pain, as he began to realize what she might have been to him had he never seen Clarice. “Elithe,” he said, “Elithe,” in a tone of voice which sent the hot blood in waves of crimson to her face. Then, remembering Clarice and the cell and the convict’s dress, he dropped her hands and only added: “Go now and leave me. I am better alone.” CHAPTER XLI. TOM, YOU DID IT!