me twice about it, but I was firm; there was no reason why I should
trouble. I have everything I want," and again her voice trailed into
silence.

I looked about the strange, bare room, at the strange, slender figure,
and I rose and folded her about with my arms; but she struggled in my
embrace. "No, no, do not touch me!" she cried sharply, in a tone of
suffering. My hands fell from her, and I knelt abashed at her side. "Oh!
please forgive me. I cannot be touched. I hate it. You have been so
good," she said, with compunction, regarding me with a certain remorse.
I was not aggrieved at being repulsed. As I resumed my seat, I said,
"You have only one life to live; snatch at least what you can out of the
years. Take my wisdom. You have the book yet? Good. Come back with me;
we will get it published. Open your heart, make one effort at living:
you can but fail. Come away from the sound of the waves and the wind
through the scrub-oaks; from this room and its memories. Be what you
might have been."

For the first time she faintly smiled. She shook her head. "I told you I
was like Aaron's rod. See for yourself. The power of thought or interest
in everything else has withered and wasted like my face and body. My
days are almost as irresponsible as a child's now. I have gone back to
the carelessness of a little girl about the conditions of life. It was
once, and once only for me. But you have given me relief, or rather I
have given myself relief this afternoon. And now, will you leave me? I
am so glad to have said it all over, and yet, since I have done it, I
cannot bear to see you."

The peculiarity of her voice and manner, of which I have spoken, that
made all her words sweet and gentle, however unconventional they might