in the heavenly sweetness of surrender.

Wilmot could find nothing to say. It was no mere gust of passion that
had swept over him, but a storm. He was physically tired, as if he had
rowed a long race. He no longer wished to play the master. He would
rather a thousand times have rested his hot forehead on Barbara's cool
hand, and fallen quietly asleep like a little child come in at last to
his mother after too much play in the hot sun.

"Life," he said at last, "is a nuisance, Barbs. Isn't it? Would you,
honestly, be happier if I disappeared, and never bothered you again?
Sometimes I feel that I ought to."

She shook her head. "If you like people," she said, "you like them,
faults and all. I'm dependent on you in a hundred ways. You're the
oldest and best friend I've got. If you disappeared I'd curl up and die.
But now that we are talking personalities, you very nearly forgot
yourself a few minutes ago. Well, I forgive. But it mustn't
happen again."

He bowed his head very humbly. "I will go back to patience and
gentleness," he said, "and give them another trial."

"I wish," she said, "that you would go back and begin your life over
again--stop drifting and sail for some definite harbor."

"I will," he said, "on condition--"

"No--no--no," she said hurriedly, "no condition. I am in no position to
make conditions, if that's what you mean. I don't understand myself. I