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RV 211 the wonder within his own heart. If only he could unknit those gathered brows, make bend the guarded line of the lips, open the eyes upon him with the undefensive sweetness they had shown him under the cedars, in the candle light, even in the shadow of the stable that morning when he had been so careless of her that he had scarcely glanced at her! The memory that went yet farther back, of how she had pulled herself from her mother's hand on the day of their ride and come toward him, remained the sweetest, most unhappy thought. Now she was like a door locked against him; like a house, dark. All the strength in her seemed gathered together to exclude him. Each time he stirred he could feel her start, as if, of all things, his touch was what she most dreaded.

"You are making a bad mistake about us, aren't you?" he said. "You seem to think that what happened down-stairs a little while ago was very terrible."

She was silent.

"I thought it was quite beautiful."

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, under her breath.

"Neither do I—but I must. I can't stand the way you look at me—as if I were a beast; and I'm not—to you!" He found himself floundering in speech,