It was the first word of the kind that had ever passed between them. Yet neither showed surprise, nor did either change position. It was as though he had said that gravitation makes the apple fall, or that the earth was round, a thing they had both known for long, had become instinctively adjusted to. "I knew that," said the girl gently, "and know too that you're sorry I am afraid. You can't help it. If it weren't true, though, you wouldn't be you." The man looked at her gravely. "You think it will always be that way?" he asked. "You'll always be afraid at times, I mean?" "Yes. You're bigger than I am. I can't understand you, I never can wholly. I've given up hope. We're all afraid of things we can't completely understand." Silently the man passed his hand across his face, unconsciously; his arm fell lax at his side. As the girl had known, he did not follow the lead, would not follow it unless she directed the way. "You said you fancied I could forget what's past," he said at last. "Did you honestly believe that?" "Yes, or ignore it." "Ignore it--or forget!" The fingers of the great hands twitched. "Some things one can't ignore or forget, girl. To do so would be superhuman. You don't understand." "No; you've never told me. You've suggested at times, merely suggested; nothing more." "You'd like to know why--the reason? It would help you to understand?" "Yes; I think it would help." "It might even lead to making you--unafraid?" A halt this time, then, "Yes, it might possibly do even that." Again the man looked at her for long in silence, and again very gravely. "I'll tell you, then," he said. "It isn't pleasant for me to tell nor for you to hear; but I'd like you to know why--if you can. They're all back, back, the things I'd like to forget and can't, a very long way. They date from the time I first knew anything." The girl settled deeper into the soft coat, her eyes half closed. "You told me once you couldn't remember your mother even," she suggested.