She seemed a little surprised at his apparent coldness, but took the arm he offered and walked on with him. Very little was said, but near the door of the inn she stopped for a moment, with both hands clasped on his arm, and looked away past him down the street. When at last she spoke her voice was very soft and tender, and trembled a little. "It may be a long, long time before I see you again, dear old friend, and as this is to be our farewell there is something--something I would like to say to you. I seem again to-night to be a little child, just as I was in those old days when you put your cloak about me and hushed my weeping in your arms. I have given you, I fear, cause to think badly of me. Will you think better of me if I tell you that I would be glad to be a child again, weeping in the rain, if only I might do some of the things I have tried to do so much better? Something else I must say before I leave you. There was a man--a dear, good fellow--who loved me; I have thought of him--oh, believe me--with tears, many and many a night when I have lain awake. I fear there is no heaven I can reach; I am afraid that every gate of any paradise that might be mine will be closed against me because I deserted him when he most needed me. Even you--good, kind friend that you are--even you don't know everything. There is an image of stone over there"--she flung out her arm with a passionate gesture--"I saw it this afternoon, with its smiling face raised to the sky; I would that my hands were strong enough to tear it down! It mocks me where it stands--mocks the pain that rages in my heart. If you should ever see the man who loved me--the better man--will you tell him from me, now that it is too late, that I learned to love him with all my heart and soul; that I would that I might crawl to his feet and kiss them, and tell him so. Will you tell him that?" "If I see him," said the little captain, "I will tell him." She kissed him hurriedly and hugged him in the old, passionate, childish fashion, and ran into the inn. He waited for a few moments and then turned away. He was too upset by the events of the strange night to care to go back to his own cottage; more than all, he feared, in a vague fashion, to meet Comethup. With his hands clasped behind him under his cloak he walked on, scarcely knowing where he went, and found himself presently turning in under the archway which led to the shoemaker's shop. He dared not think, dared not bring himself to the realization of the fact, that these two people were in the same town, almost within cry of each other, this night. He wanted to get away from the thought of it; wanted desperately to talk to some one. He saw a light gleaming through the shutters of Medmer Theed's shop, and after hesitating for a moment knocked at the door.