There was a moment's silence. Then he began to speak again, patting a great force upon himself as he did so. "Forgive me. I know you cannot understand--cannot feel as I do. I do not ask for it. I only ask you to let me give you the home you want. You say you belong to no one. It is at least something to have a home," he said in abrupt sentences, with his voice unconsciously tremulous. Still silence, yet her heart beat so quickly that she fancied its great throbs filled the room. What was this that had come to her? What sudden awakening had changed their positions? And what was it that was offered?--a home--rest--deliverance from bondage, it seemed. She had no love to give; but if he did not demand it? He was not hard, she knew that now, and did him justice. Would it not be easy to put her hand into his, and go away where at least she would find kind shelter? One must be in a position like hers before judging poor, desolate Therese for the strength of the temptation. Fabien, who had been gone so long-- Fabien, who had renounced her with the rest--Fabien and weary waiting-- unkind words, hard toil, solitude, dreariness, on the one side; on the other, love, tenderness, protection. She hesitated, her heart cried out for these good things, she half put out her hand, and glanced at him with shy, frightened eyes. His own grew more hopeful, more eager, as he noticed the little action. "Will you trust me? Will you come?" he said in a deep, tender voice. He fancied he could read her maidenly reluctance, her fears; he knew nothing of that other who formed the real barrier between them; he did not even understand what motives half impelled her towards him. He had her hands in his again before she quite knew what he was about. It all seemed to her like a dream. "Can you give me a little love?" he said, smiling. The word awoke her. "No, no," she cried, wrenching her hands away suddenly. "Oh, what are you saying! Never, never!" He drew back, terribly hurt. His love deserved a better answer than this, and he knew it. He had spoken from the depth of his heart, and thus he had a right to expect a less indignant rejection. But the next moment pity overcame his anger. She had flung herself into a chair and buried her face on the table, in an attitude so despairing that he forgot himself. He walked quickly to the window and back, then Therese heard his voice, changed, but with a tone in it which thrilled through her. "At least let me be your friend. Tell me how I have troubled you." She was hardly conscious of speaking. Perhaps some quickened perception awoke in him in the pain of that moment, and her lips must have framed the name, for he repeated the word "Fabien," under his breath; and then there came a silence, which seemed to her endless. She looked up at last. He had dropped into a chair opposite to her; his face was very pale and stern. He breathed quickly. Almost involuntarily she said, "Do not be angry with me!"