"Thank God!" she whispered--and hid her face in her hands--and presently
he heard her sob again.

A tiny cloud edged the moon, and the light faded, and it grew dark, and
the darkness hid her; then softly, timidly almost it seemed, the
radiance came creeping through the branches overhead again--and then he
spoke.

"Helena," he said, steadying his voice with an effort, "you spoke of
atonement a little while ago; but there is no atonement that I can make
to you--nothing that I can do to change what I would give my soul to
change. I know what it meant to you to send Thornton away to-night, for
I love you now as you love him--I know why you did it, and--"

She was staring at him a little wildly--her hands pressed against her
cheeks.

"Love--Thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause
between the words.

"Yes," he said gently; "I know. Have you forgotten what you told me this
afternoon?--that you had learned--last night--what love was."

She shook her head.

"I do not love Thornton," she said in a monotone. "And yet it is true
that through him I learned what love was, what it _could_ be--don't you
understand?"

Understand! No; it seemed that he could never understand! She did not