My answer was a tortured whisper. “It’s impossible; I’m not made like that. For my own peace of mind I almost wish I were.” We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one of the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out, watching for her return. “He’s always like that; he can’t bear to be without me. I had one of my moods this evening, when I want to be alone--he knew it.” “When you wanted to think of me; that’s what you meant--why didn’t you say it?” “One daren’t say these things, when they’re saying good-by, perhaps for ever.” She had her hand on the gate, preparing to enter; we neither of us knew what to say at parting. The things that were in my heart I must not utter, and all other things seemed trivial. I looked from her to the burly figure framed in the glowing window. I pitied him with the proud pity of youth for age, a pity which is half cruel. After all, she loved me and we had our years before us. We could afford disappointment, we whose lives were mostly in the future; his life was two-thirds spent, and his years were running out. Looking up the path in his direction, I asked, “Shall you tell him?” “He has known for a year; it was only fair.” “And he was angry? He blamed you?” “He was sorry. I wish he had blamed me. He blames himself, which is the hardest thing I have to bear.” “Vi,” I said, “he’s a good man--better than I am. You must learn to love him.” She held out her hand quickly; her voice was muffled. “Good-night, my dearest, and good-by.” The gate clanged. As she ran up the path, I saw that her husband had moved from the window. He opened the door to her; in the lighted room I saw him put his arms about her. By the way she looked up at him and he bent over her, I knew she was confessing. Then I shambled down the road, feeling very old and tired. I was so tired that I hardly knew how to finish my packing; I was cold, bitterly cold. I dragged myself to bed; in order to catch the boat in Boston, I had to make an early start next morning. My teeth were chattering and my flesh was burning. Several times in the night I caught myself speaking aloud, saying stupid, tangled things about Vi. Then I thought that what I had said had been overheard. I shouted angrily to them to go away, declaring, that I had not meant what I said. When my eyes closed, the stars were going out. “It will soon be morning,” I told myself; “I must get up and dress.” I tried to get up, but my head would stick to the pillow and my body refused to work. “That’s queer,” I thought; “never mind, I’ll try later.” CHAPTER XV--THE FLAME OF A SWORD