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Rh "You—love me?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Bradley."

It seemed a full minute that she sat there looking at him. Finally she said:

"Do you know what love is?"

And he replied:

"Why, certainly! I'm in it."

"Oh, but I mean do you really comprehend it?" And without waiting for a reply she went on impulsively: "Do you know how beautiful it is? how wonderful? how terrible? Do you?"

The questions came with such force and rapidity that Barry sat stunned and speechless. But it was not necessary that he should answer her; she did not expect a reply. She turned her face away from him and looked out, through the one dim window of her room, on the dead-wall of the building that fronted on the other street. What or whom did she see beyond that square of tempered light that her eyes grew moist and tender, and her face radiant with a light that only great love can bring? Not Barry, indeed! He still sat speechless, motionless, bewildered, utterly at a loss to know what to do or to say. The silence was broken at last by Mrs. Bradley herself. She sighed and turned back toward him.

"Pardon me!" she said. "I did not mean to be abrupt. And you are very good to tell me all this. But, you know, there are reasons why I can't listen to love-making—at least not yet."

Barry awoke. His mind grasped her meaning. Her widowhood was so recent. She must honor it. He honored her for respecting it.

"True!" he said. "I understand. I'll wait. I was only filing a lien anyway."

She smiled a little at that.

"Thank you!" she replied. "Now, to go back to Mr. Farrar. I've changed my mind about him. I think he ought to be encouraged, heartened, helped.