draw her to him.

Resisting more vigorously, she answered: "Everything is wrong! You are
wrong! I am wrong! All life is wrong! Can't you understand? Please leave
me."

The man drew back, and spoke roughly in a tone of disgust: "Hell! I
believe you love that bank clerk as much as you ever did!"

"Well, and suppose that were true, Harry?" she answered, wearily.
"Suppose it were true,--that I did still love my husband? Could that
make any difference now? Can anything ever make any difference now? You
will tire of me before long, just as you have grown tired of the others
who were before me. Don't you suppose I know? You and our friends have
taught me many things, Harry. I know, now, that Brian's dreams were
right. That his dreams could never be realized, does not make them
foolish nor wrong. His dreams that seemed so foolish--such impossible
ideals--were more real, after all, than this life that we think so real.
WE are the dreamers,--we and our kind,--and our awakening is as sure to
come as that river out there is sure of reaching the sea."

The man laughed harshly: "You are quite poetical, to-night. I believe I
like you better, though, when you talk sense."

"I am sorry, Harry," she returned. "Please don't be cross with me! Go
now,--please go!"

And something forced the man to silence. Slowly, he left the room. The
woman locked the door. Returning to the window, she fell on her knees,
and stretched her hands imploringly toward the tiny spot of light that