He sat before her, looking up to the sweet face that looked down upon him. His eyes were full of tears. The world had dealt hardly with him; but he felt that his life had not been wholly barren of gladness, since he had lived to see--even through the dimness of tears--so sweet a face looking into his own with eyes full of the light of--was it the gratitude of a girl? Was it the love of a woman? He could not speak. He could not even return the pressure of the small hands that clasped his own with all the gracious pressure of the tendrils of a climbing flower. “Have you nothing to say to me--no word to give me at this moment?” she asked in a whisper, and her head was bent closer to his, and her fingers seemed to him to tighten somewhat around his own. “What word?” said he. “Ah, my child, what word should come from such a man as I to such a woman as you? No, I have no word. Such complete happiness as is mine at this moment does not seek to find expression in words. You have given me such happiness as I never hoped for in my life. You have understood me--you alone, and that to such as I means happiness.” She dropped his hands so suddenly as almost to suggest that she had flung them away from her. She took an impatient step or two in the direction of the window. “You talk of my understanding you,” she said in a voice that had a sob in it. “Yes, but have you no thought of understanding me? Is it only a man's nature that is worth trying to understand? Is a woman's not worthy of a thought?” He started up and seemed about to stretch his arms out to her, but with a sudden drawing in of his breath he put his hands behind his back and locked the fingers of both together. Thus he stood looking at her while she had her face averted, not knowing the struggle that was going on between the two powers that are ever in the throes of conflict within the heart of a man who loves a woman well enough to have no thought of himself--no thought except for her happiness. “No,” he said at last. “No, my dear, dear child; I have no word to say to you! I fear to speak a word. The happiness that a man builds up for himself may be destroyed by the utterance of one word. I wish to remain happy--watching your happiness--in silence. Perhaps I may understand you--I may understand something of the thought which gratitude suggests to you.” “Ah, gratitude!” said she in a tone that was sad even in its scornfulness. She had not turned her head toward him. “Yes, I may understand something of your nature--the sweetest, the tenderest that ever made a woman blessed; but I understand myself better, and I know in what direction lies my happiness--in what direction lies your happiness.” “Ah! are you sure that they are two--that they are separate?” said she. And now she moved her head slowly so that she was looking into his face. There was a long pause. She could not see the movement of his hands. He still held them behind him. At last he said slowly--