above Nature. He is living just as you are."

I studied a moment.

"Are you a woman?" I asked suddenly.

Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful,
somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the
back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied,
unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered
and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob.
When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.

"Oh," she said. "Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a
woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is
so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it--I love it! I
can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live,
see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the
first. How did you know it? You said--Ah, it is true! I am out of
the moonbeams." She controlled herself suddenly. "Excuse me," she
said simply. "But you can never understand. May I have the ring?"

It was like a dream--her beauty, her voice, everything. But I
could still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered.
What was this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the
most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a
question?

"I shall keep the ring," I answered.