the terror out of her voice, but it had her by the throat. "Oh, no,
no--you can't--not again! Jerry, Jerry, don't go away and leave
me--truly and truly I can't stand it--truly!"

She wrung her hands together desperately; she was on her knees to
him--did he wish her to go lower still? Oh, she had never learned to
beg!

"I can't send you away again--I can't. When I sent you to France I
killed my heart--when I let you go to death, I crucified my soul. I
haven't anything left but my pride--you can have that, too. I can't
send you back to your heaven. Stay with me--stay with me, Jerry!"

Not a sound--not a stir--but well she knew that he was standing there,
waiting. She rose slowly to her feet.

"Very well--you've won," she said hardly. "Go back to your saints and
seraphs and angels; I'm beaten. I was mad to think that you ever
cared--go back!" She turned, stumbling, the sobs tearing at her
throat; he had gone several steps before she realized that he was
following her--and all the hardness and bitterness and despair fell
from her like a cloak.

"Oh, Jerry," she whispered, "Jerry, darling, I'm so sorry. And
you've come so far--just to find this! What is it that you want;
can't you tell me?"

She stood tense and still, straining eyes and ears for her
answer--but it was not to eyes or ears that it came.