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 her in the mood for Gabriel Stanton, his serious tenderness, and deep, almost overwhelming devotion. She was a whimsical, strange little creature, genius as she called herself, and for the moment had ceased to act.

The weather changed, it rained almost continuously from Saturday night until Monday morning. They spent the time between the music room and the uncongenial dining-room where they had their meals. On the sofa, she lay practically in his arms, she sheltered there. She had been frightened by her own agitation and uncertainty; the attacks that followed. And now believed that all she needed was calm; happy certainty; Gabriel Stanton.

"Don't make me care for you too much," she said on one of these days. "I want you to rest me, not to get excited over you, to keep calm."

"I am here only for you to use. Think of me as refuge, sanctuary, what you will."

"A sort of cathedral?"

"You may laugh at me. I like you to laugh at me. Why not as a cathedral, cool and restful?"

"Cool and restful," she repeated. "Yes, you are like that. But suppose I want to wander outside, restless creature that I am; suppose nothing you do satisfies me?"

"I'll do more."

"And after that?"

"Always more."