of things--a coward.

She was so young--fourteen years younger than he--and what was his to
offer in exchange for her life of varied interests, of sweet, sane,
helpful, happy things of which he knew so little? He had thought he
knew life, its all sides; and unknown to herself she had shown him
what had not been understood before, and his was cold and colorless
by the side of the warmth and glow of hers.

Yesterday he had known, however, he would not wait long. After she
had returned to her home he would go to it and tell her why he had
come. All through the day certain words had sung in his ears, and
over his books had danced and blurred the figures he was making; and
before him in fancy she was waiting for his coming when the day was
done, was in the room with outstretched hands to give him greeting as
he entered the door. The light of a new vision had blinded, and in
its fire the loneliness of his life had stood out in chill clearness,
and no longer could it be endured. Some one to care if the days were
dark, some one to share the giving and taking of life. At the
thought of trust so sacred, his face had whitened, and in his heart
unconscious prayer had sprung.

That was yesterday. This afternoon he had stopped at his sister's
home for tea, as he had done for days past now, and, Dorothea being
sick, he had gone up to see her and give her the book bought for her.
As usual, she had much to say, and he let her talk uninterruptedly.
It was of Claudia that she talked, always of Claudia, and he had
listened in a silence that gave chance for much detail.

"She gets more letters!" Dorothea's hands came together as if very