land and water separating them; or in the hospital, on a
white-enamel cot, watching the shadow creep across the
whitewashed wall; or lying beneath an awning that did not move,
staring at a burning, brazen sea that did not move, on a transport
that, timed by the beating of his heart, stood still.

Those days were within the radius of his experience. Separation,
absence, the immutable giants of time and space, he knew. With
them he had fought and could withstand them. But to be near her,
to hear her voice, to bring his love into her actual presence, that was
an attack upon his feelings which found him without weapons. That
for a very few dollars she had traded the cup from which she had sworn
never to part did not concern him. Having parted from him, what she
did with a silver mug was of little consequence. It was of significance
only in that it meant she was poor. And that she was either an inmate
or a matron of a lodging-house for working girls also showed she was
poor.

He had been told that was her condition, and that she was in ill health,
and that from all who loved her she had refused to accept help. At the
thought his jaws locked pugnaciously. There was one who loved her,
who, should she refuse his aid, was prepared to make her life intolerable.
He planned in succession at lightning speed all he might do for her. Among
other things he would make this Christmas the happiest she or he would
ever know. Not for an instant did he question that she who had refused
help from all who loved her could refuse anything he offered. For he
knew it was offered with a love that demanded nothing in return, with
a love that asked only to be allowed to love, and to serve. To refuse help
inspired by such a feeling as his would be morbid, wicked, ridiculous,
as though a flower refused to turn its face to the sun, and shut its lips