There was between them one of the long, vital silences, full of certainty of a common emotion, which had once or twice before marked a significant change in their relation. Finally, "That's something I shall never forget," said Lydia. Rankin looked at her in silence, and then, quickly, away. "It's like an answer to what I was saying--a refutation of what Dr. Melton thinks--about people--" As Rankin still made no answer, she exclaimed in a ravished surprise, "Why, I never saw anything so lovely--that made me so happy! I feel warm all over!" Indeed, her face shone through the dusk upon her companion, who could now no longer constrain himself to look away from her. He said, his voice vibrant with a deep note which instantly carried Lydia back to the other time when she had heard it, under the stars of last October, "It's only an instrument exquisitely in tune which can so respond--" He broke off, closed his lips, and, turning away from her, gazed sightlessly out at the dim, flat horizon, now the only outline visible in the twilight. Lydia said nothing, either then or when, after a long pause, he said that he would leave the car at the next station. "It has been very pleasant to see you again," he said, bending over his tool-box, "and you mustn't lay it up against me that I haven't congratulated you on your engagement. Of course you know how I wish you all happiness." "Thank you," said Lydia. Ahead of the car, some lights suddenly winking above the horizon announced the approach of Hardville. Rankin stood up, slipped on his rough overcoat, and sat down again. He drew a long breath, and began evenly: "I know you won't misunderstand me if I try to say one more thing. I probably won't see you again for years, and it would be a great joy to me to be sure that you know how hearty is my good-will to you. I'm afraid you can't think of me without pain, because I was the cause of such discomfort to you, but I know you are too generous to blame me for what was an involuntary hurt. Of course I ought to have known how your guardians would feel about your knowing me--" "Oh, _why_ should you be so that all that happened!" cried Lydia suddenly. "If it was too hard for me, why couldn't you have made it easier--thought differently--acted like other people. _Would_ you--if I hadn't--if we had gone on knowing each other?" Rankin turned very white. "No," he said; "I couldn't." "It seems to me," said Lydia hurriedly, "that, without being willing to concede anything to their ideas, you ask a great deal of your friends."