Moreover, here was matter more curious still: this thing he had all his life known about Martha, but had never realized until now, made her in a moment a woman new to him, so that she seemed to stand there, facing him across the iron fence, a new Martha. He had no definition in words for what he felt, nor sought one; but it was as if he found himself in possession of an ineffable gift, inexpressibly valuable and shining vaguely in the darkness. This shining, wan and touching, seemed to come from Martha herself; and this newness of hers, that was yet so old, put a glamour about her. The dim, kind face and shimmering familiar figure were beautiful, he saw, never before having had consciousness of her as beautiful; but what most seemed to glow upon him out of the glamour about her was the steadfastness within her; for that was the jewel worn by the very self of her and shining upon him in the night. “Martha——” he said in a low voice. “Yes, Dan?” “You’ve always been such a friend of mine, I—I—I’ve never said much about how I feel about it. I haven’t got anything I wouldn’t sooner part with, Martha.” “I hope so,” she said gently, and bowed her head in a kind of meekness. “I hope so, Dan, but——” She stopped. “But what, Martha?” “I’m afraid,” she said slowly, “your wife isn’t going to like me.” “Oh, but she will,” he returned, trying to put heartiness into this assurance. “She’s bound to! Why, everybody in the world likes you, Martha.” “No; I had the feeling as soon as I spoke to her that she never would, Dan. It was just a feeling, but I’m afraid it’ll turn out so. That doesn’t mean I won’t try my best to make her.” “You won’t need to try. Of course just now she’s suffering so terribly, poor little thing——” “Poor Dan!” Martha said, as he stopped speaking and sighed instead. “You never _could_ bear to see anybody suffer. The trouble is it always makes you suffer more than the person that’s doing the original suffering.” “Oh, no. But I don’t know what on earth to do for her. Of course, in a few days, when she begins to see what it’s really _like_ here, and I get her to understand a little more about the Addition——” He stopped, startled to hear his name called in a querulous little voice from an upstairs window. “She’s awake,” he said in a whisper. “Who on earth are you talking with out there?” called the querulous voice. “Good-night,” he whispered, moving away hurriedly; but, looking back, he saw that Martha remained at the separating iron fence, leaning upon it now; and he could feel, rather than see, that she was not looking at him, but that her head was again bowed in the same meekness with which she had said she hoped he prized her feeling for him. CHAPTER XI