One evening, after playing Chopin’s Second Waltz, she had turned in the dusk to find him staring at the flames as they flung tragic shadows through the twilight. He looked like a Dante, gazing morose and mute upon the pessimisms of some under world. The music had moved him; she had read its echoes in his eyes. Going on her knees, she had taken his hands in hers and pleaded with him after the gracious manner of her heart. “Gabriel, what ails you?” she had asked. The man had put her hands gently from him and turned his face into the shadows. “Nothing,” he had answered her. “Can you not trust me?” “Dear, I cannot trust myself.” She had crept close to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Gabriel, is it your marriage?” “Do not ask me,” he had said. “May I not help you?” “No one can help me,” he had retorted, rising and leaving her alone by the fire. One winter afternoon they wandered together on the hills above the sea. The day was cheerless and full of the piping of the wind. The sea ran gray and lustreless under a sullen sky, whose clouds trailed dim and rain-laden over the hills. The woods were gaunt and wild as with remorse. Dead leaves lay rotting in the lanes; in some of the more sheltered ditches snow still lingered. The conversation had fallen upon elemental things—the thirst for love and man’s eternal yearning for a spiritual creed. Judith, divine woman that she was, possessed that clarity of thought that abhorred dogmas and embraced untainted truth. Religion to her was as spiritual sunlight diffusing itself throughout the world. To her sanctity did not emanate from the pulpit. She was no automaton stirred to moral activity by black-letter phrases and studied incantations. To her life was religion, each heart-beat a natural prayer. Her Christianity was not of the book and the pew, but a bright atmosphere surrounding all things. Gabriel was in a bitter mood. He had long escaped from the sensuous stupor into which his marriage had plunged him, and the awakening was the more humiliating to his pride. The natural fires of the mind were stirring from the ashes of a dead and sensual desire. His thoughts spread towards the unknown and into the wilderness of beauty and romance. He had bartered his liberty for red pottage and the bondage irked his soul. Brother and sister came nearer to each other’s heart that day as they wandered over the misty hills. Judith had caught the man’s humor, and her sympathies were awake like birds on a May morning. It was pure joy to her to feel that she had some share in the man’s musings. “I am weary of orthodoxy,” he said to her, as they threaded a wood where the trees stood in a silver vapor. “What is orthodoxy?” she asked, as she followed at his heels. “The blind cult of custom.” “Why trouble over such a grievance; the world is wide. Need one think with the mob?” “In Saltire, yes.” “Perhaps you are right,” she said to him, as she drew to his side and looked wistfully into his face.