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 home. She remained, therefore, quietly gazing into the fire, as she listened to the opening and closing of the door. Now she sensed a presence in the room, but even so she did not yet turn her head. There followed a considerable pause before her visitor spoke.

I have come back, she heard a breaking voice announce.

Still she did not turn her head. How thankful she was that she had not turned it before! She waited, perhaps ten seconds, employing all the will at her command in a supreme effort to regain her composure. Then she spoke—and how hollow and unreal her voice sounded to her!

Yes. How do you do? At last, she risked a glance. How pitiful he was, with agony sketched across his features! The glance performed the miracle she had been praying for. She might have known that she could count on that. Confronted by his distress, her own peace of mind returned in some degree. She even rose, advanced towards him, and clasped his hand.

Please. . . sit down, she invited.

He did not accept her invitation. He remained standing; he was not, she observed, even looking in her direction.

I have fought like ten million devils, he stammered, but it's no good. I love you. He made this announcement in a tone of the deepest despair.

I think I love you, too, Gunnar, Campaspe re-