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 a hidden source of vitality and beauty to her, so that she was able to give more abundantly to those for whose happiness she was responsible. Like a buried spring, hidden in the side of a mountain, enriching the soil from beneath, secretly and silently feeding the roots of rare and lovely flowers that starred the mossy bank.

She told him so one late afternoon in January, in her characteristic, indirect way, likening him to the buried spring (they still talked in similes sometimes), pursuing her shy, unformed thought slowly, gropingly, as he sat and listened silently across the room, turning his eyes away from her finally, partaking cautiously, sparingly, of the dainty food she offered him, afraid his hunger might burst out in some ravenous and greedy act.

This was the first time she had referred to their friendship (if that was the name for it), and its significance to her. As he listened he felt fully repaid for all his restraint. He wished only for the privilege of seeing Sheilah occasionally, and taking part in making her happy. And she was telling him that he was succeeding! Well—he would continue to succeed. He would make of their relations one of those ideal friendships Carl Baird talked about, controlled and governed by intelligence. Doing good to each other, helping each other, never stooping to the instinctive. Why, it could go on for-