"I have been afraid," she said, trying hard for composure--"it has been weighing upon me all through these hours--that--I had been putting a claim--a claim of my own forward." It seemed hardly possible for her to find the words. "And I have been realising the issues for _you_, feeling bitterly that I had done a great wrong--if it were not a matter of conviction--in--in wringing so much from a friend. This morning everything,--the victory, the joy of seeing hard work bear fruit,--it has all been blurred to me." He gazed at her a moment--fixing every feature, every line upon his memory. "Don't let it be," he said quietly, at last. "I have had my great moment. It does not fall to many to feel as I felt for about an hour last night. I had seen you in trouble and anxiety for many weeks. I was able to brush them away, to give you relief and joy,--at least, I thought I was"--he drew himself up with a half-impatient smile. "Sometimes I suspected that--that your kindness might be troubled about me; but I said to myself, 'that will pass away, and the solid thing--the fact--will remain. She longed for this particular thing. She shall have it. And if the truth is as she supposes it,--why not?--there are good men and keen brains with her--what has been done will go on gladdening and satisfying her year by year. As for me, I shall have acknowledged, shall have repaid--'" He hesitated--paused--looked up. A sudden terror seized her--her lips parted. "Don't--don't say these things!" she said, imploring, lifting her hand. It was like a child flinching from a punishment. He smiled unsteadily, trying to master himself, to find a way through the tumult of feeling. "Won't you listen to me?" he said at last, "I sha'n't ever trouble you again." She could make no reply. Intolerable gratitude and pain held her, and he went on speaking, gazing straight into her shrinking face.