"Connie Elliott! I more than half believe"--She stopped abruptly, as if there had been some dumb protest of the imprisoned hand, and then went on with a swift change from accusation to gentle reproach. "I believe you have only just begun to tell me your troubles,--and I've been with you all day! What are some more of them?" "I have told you the worst of them,--or at least that part of them which makes it impossible for me to go away. But there is another reason why I ought to stay." "Is that one namable, too?" "Yes; but perhaps you won't understand. And you will be sure to tell me it isn't proper. I think one of Mr. Lansdale's few pleasures is his coming here." "Few remaining pleasures, you would say, if you were not too tender-hearted. Is it wise, Connie?" "Why not?--if it is a comfort to him?" Myra hesitated, not because she had nothing to say, but because she knew not how to say the thing demanded. "You haven't given me leave to be quite frank with you, Connie. But it seems to me that your kindness in this case is--is mistaken kindness." Constance's rejoinder was merely an underthought slipping the leash. "It is not to be expected that any one would understand," she said. "But I do understand," Myra asserted, this time with better confidence. "I'm not supposed to have the slightest inkling of your feelings,--you've never lisped a word to me,--but Mr. Lansdale's motives are plain enough to be read in the dark. If he were a well man he would have asked you to marry him long ago." "Do you think so?" said Constance half absently. "I'm not so sure about that. He is far away from home and wretchedly ill; and he has many acquaintances and few real friends." "But he loves you," Myra persisted. "He has never said anything like that to me." "It is quite possible that he never will, in view of the insurmountable obstacle." "His ill-health, you mean? Myra, dear, you surely know love better than that--now. Love is the one thing which will both sow and reap even in the day when the heavens are of brass and the earth is a barren desert." The under-roar of traffic in the street made the silence in the upper room more effective by contrast; like the sense of isolation which is often sharpest in a jostling throng. Myra rose and went to the window again, coming back presently to stand over Constance and say, "I suppose it is ordained that you should be a martyr to somebody or something, Connie, dear; and when the time comes I'm not going to say you nay, because I think you will be happier that way. If Mr. Lansdale should be tempted to say that which I am sure he has determined not to say, is your answer ready?" Connie's hands were clasped over one knee, and the poise was of introspective beatitude. But the answer to Myra's query was not irrelevant. "He is the truest of gentlemen; what would your answer be, Myra?"