eyes closing heavily as he did so. He made an effort, however, and
pulled himself together. His eyes opened, and he looked at Jen steadily
for a moment. Then he leaned over and touched her hand gently with his
fingers,--Pierre's glove of kindness,--and said: "It's in my heart to
want to stay; but a sight of you I'll have on my way back. But I must go
on now, though I'm that drowsy I could lie down here and never stir
again."

Jen said to herself: "Poor fellow, poor fellow, how tired he is! I
wish"--but she withdrew her hand. He put his hand to his head, and said,
absently: "It's my duty and it's orders, and . . . what was I sayin'?
The disgrace of me if, if . . . bedad! the sleep's on me; I'm awake,
but I can't open my eyes. . . . If the orders of me--and a good meal
. . . and the disgrace . . . to do me duty-looked the world in the
face--"

During this speech he staggered to his feet, Jen watching him anxiously
the while. No suspicion of the cause of his trouble crossed her mind.
She set it down to extreme natural exhaustion. Presently feeling the
sofa behind him, he dropped upon it, and, falling back, began to breathe
heavily. But even in this physical stupefaction he made an effort to
reassert himself, to draw himself back from the coming unconsciousness.
His eyes opened, but they were blind with sleep; and as if in a dream,
he said: "My duty . . . disgrace . . . a long sleep . . . Jen,
dearest"--how she started then!--"it must be done . . . my Jen!" and
he said no more.

But these few words had opened up a world for her--a new-created world on
the instant. Her life was illuminated. She felt the fulness of a great
thought suffusing her face. A beautiful dream was upon her. It had come