and there was stamped upon his face a look which no man or woman had ever
seen there, a look of utter loneliness and desolation, a look as of a
soul condemned to wander forever through the infinite, cold spaces
between the worlds--alone.

Cynthia stopped at sight of it. What had been her misery and affliction
compared to this? Her limbs refused her, though she knew not whether she
would have fled or rushed into his arms. How long she stood thus, and he
stood, may not be said, but at length he put down his foot and took the
saw from his knee, his eyes fell upon her, and his lips spoke her name.

"Cynthy!"

Speechless, she ran to him and flung her arms about his neck, and he
dropped the saw and held her tightly--even as he had held that other
Cynthia in that place in the year gone by. And yet not so. Now he clung
to her with a desperation that was terrible, as though to let go of her
would be to fall into nameless voids beyond human companionship and love.
But at last he did release her, and stood looking down into her face, as
if seeking to read a sentence there.

And how was she to pronounce that sentence! Though her faith might be
taken away, her love remained, and grew all the greater because he needed
it. Yet she knew that no subterfuge or pretence would avail her to hide
why she had come. She could not hide it. It must be spoken out now,
though death was preferable.

And he was waiting. Did he guess? She could not tell. He had spoken no
word but her name. He had expressed no surprise at her appearance, asked
no reasons for it. Superlatives of suffering or joy or courage are hard