At last he held out his hands to her with that half-reproachful gesture
he had often used towards her. "I fear nothing!--I hope everything. You
never forbade me that. Will you leave my love no mysteries, Laura--no
reserve? Nothing for you to discover and explore as time goes on?"

She trembled under the mingled remonstrance and passion of his tone. But
she persisted. "It's because--I feel--other things come before love. Tell
me--I have a right to know. I shall never come first--quite first--shall
I?"

She forced the saddest, proudest of smiles, as he took her reluctant
hands.

And involuntarily her eyes travelled over the room, over the crucifix
above the faldstool, the little altar to St. Joseph, the worn books upon
his table. They were to her like the weapons and symbols of an enemy.

He made her no direct answer. His face was for a moment grave and set.
Then he roused himself, kissed the hands he held, and resolutely began to
talk of something else.

When a few minutes later he left her alone, she stood there quivering
under the touch of power by which he had silenced her--under the angry
sense that she was less and less able as the days went by to draw or
drive him into argument. The more thorny her mood became, the more sadly
did he seem to hide the treasures of the soul from her.

* * * * *