not spend some of the hours of absence? She began to see that hours
spent together when apart were the most intimate hours of all.

And as Harold did not make one wonder, so he did not make one worry.
Never in all her life had there been a lump in her throat when she
thought of Harold. There was often a lump in her throat when the man
at the next table was coughing.

One day, she had been there about two months, she said something to
him about it. It was hard; it seemed forcing one's way into a room
that had never been opened to one--there were several doors he kept
closed.

"Mr. Clifford," she turned to him impetuously as they were putting
away their things that night, "will you mind if I say something to
you?"

He was covering his paste-pot. He looked up at her strangely. The
closed door seemed to open a little way. "I can't conceive of
'minding' anything you might say to me, Miss Noah,"--he had called
her Miss Noah ever since she, by mistake, had one day called him Mr.
Webster.

"You see," she hurried on, very timid, now that the door had opened
a little, "you have been so good to me. Because you have been so
good to me it seems that I have some right to--to--"

His head was resting upon his hand, and he leaned a little closer as
though listening for something he wanted to hear.