She held her hand out pleadingly towards him. He clasped it in his long fingers. "Thank you," he replied more quietly, "I believe you mean it, but I cannot, indeed I cannot!" She did not urge, and they walked on in silence. The rain had stopped so gradually, that neither of them remembered when it had ceased to fall. Presently, they turned a bend in the road and came upon lights close at hand. "Here's my cottage," said Anne, in a slightly surprised tone. "I didn't know we were so near. Come in and Regina will get us some supper. Then you can rest awhile before returning home." One foot on the step, he looked up at her, as she stood on the porch above him. "No, the play is over, the lights are out. I must return to my hut and--" beneath his breath--"my devils." Although he had already turned about, Anne heard. "Your devils can get along perfectly well without you. Besides I have one myself. Let us share them together. Come, I see we need each other badly tonight." Compassionate beneath her light manner, she caught him by the back of the coat with both hands, and pulled him forcibly about. "Besides, I have your mackintosh and your sweater. You mustn't be so reckless with your property." He followed her up the steps with obvious reluctance. She opened the door and drew him in through the glowing aperture. "See, there's a fire," she cried gaily. "And after supper I'll play to you." She pointed to an upright in the corner. "I can play even on an old country piano," she boasted. And then she saw his face. It was paler than the hands which sought to conceal it. "No, no music! Never again!" he muttered. He fell weakly into the nearest chair, and with a low moan laid his head on the arm. Sudden intuition flooded Anne's being. How blind she had been! How was it possible that she had not recognized him sooner? A figure so well known, seen and listened to by her so many times? She approached and laid her hand on the bowed head. "I know you now, Mr. Petrovskey. It was very stupid of me not to have guessed before, only the light in the hut was so very poor. But please don't be worried," she added gently, as his drawn young face looked up into hers. "I can keep a secret very well indeed, and my one desire is to help you. You are not fit to go back to that lonely cabin to-night. You must stay here, and we will see how you are in the morning." He cast a wild glance about the rustic little room, as if he feared someone might spring out upon him from behind the pretty chintz curtains. "You cannot know how terrible this is," he said. "It is only a few weeks now--since it happened." He choked over the words. "And I feel as if I should like to hide forever." "But there is nothing to be ashamed of--" she commenced. "Ashamed," he cried, savagely. "I'm not ashamed! Only I'm full of hatred, of disgust for everyone and everything. I wish I could die!"