"I seem to have, this minute, a fresher vision of life than I have known since I was twenty."

It was something different from anything he had experienced up to now.

It was saner, clearer.

"It is the morning," she hazarded. "I never saw the gra.s.s so green as it is this morning; I never felt the sun so warm."

"It is like the peace of the inner woods,--only brighter," he declared.

"You said such peace never came to any one unless alone."

"Did I?"

She nodded.

"But it _is_ like that," he insisted. "Only more joyous. I think it is the extra joy in it that makes us not want it alone. Queer, too, it seems to be born altogether of this spot, of this moment. Understand what I mean? It does n't seem to go back of the moment we entered this room and--," he hesitated, "it does n't seem to go forward."

"It is as though coming in here we had stepped into a beautiful picture and were living inside the frame for a little," she suggested.

"Exactly. The frame is the hedge; the picture is the sky, the sun, and you."

She laughed, frankly pleased in a childish way, at his conceit.

"Then for me," she answered, "it must be the sun, the sky, and _you_."

"We are n't trying to compliment each other, are we?"

"No," she answered seriously. "I hope not."

She went on after a moment's reflection,

"I have been puzzling over the strange chance that brought you into my life at so opportune a time."

"I came because you believed in me and because you needed me. You believed in me because--," he paused, his blood seeming suddenly to run faster, "because I needed you."

"You needed me?"

"Yes," he answered, "I needed you. I needed you long ago."

"But how--why?"

"To show me the joy there is in the sunlight wherever it strikes; to take me with you into this picture."

Their eyes met.

"Have I done that?" she asked.

"Yes."

She shook her head.

"I 'm afraid not," she disclaimed, "because the joy has n't been in my own heart."

"Nor was it in mine--then."

Her eyes turned back to his. The silver in them came to the top like the moon reflection on dark waters through fading clouds. He was leaning a little towards her.

"It seems to be something that we can't get alone," he explained.

"Perhaps it is," she pondered, "perhaps."

She started back a little, as one who, lost in a sunset, leans too far over the balcony. Then she smiled. Donaldson's heart answered the smile.

"Your coffee is cooling," she said. "May I pour you some fresh?"

He pa.s.sed his cup automatically. But the act was enough to bring him back. A moment gone the room had grown misty. Something had made his throat ache. He felt taut with a great unexpressed yearning. He became conscious of his breakfast again. He sipped his hot coffee.

"I suppose," he reflected, "you ought to know something about me."

"I am interested," she answered, "but I don't think it matters much."

Again he saw in her marvelous eyes that look of complete confidence that had thrilled him first on that mad ride. Again he realized that there is nothing finer in the world. For a moment the room swam before him at the memory of his doom. But her calm gaze steadied him at once.

He must cling to the Now.

"I have n't much I can tell you," he resumed. "My parents died when I was young. They were New England farm-folk and poor. After I was left alone, I started in to get an education without a cent to my name. It took me fifteen years. I graduated from college and then from the law school. I came here to New York and opened an office. That is all."

He waved his hand deprecatingly as though ashamed that it was so slight and undramatic a tale. But she leaned towards him with sudden access of interest.

"Fifteen years, and you did it all alone! You must have had to fight."

"In a way," he answered.

"Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly.

"It's not very interesting," he laughed. "It was mostly a grind--just a plain, unceasing grind. It was n't very exciting--just getting any old job I could and then studying what time was left."

"And growing stronger every day--feeling your increasing power!"

"And my hunger, too, sometimes."

He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become so serious over it. He did n't like playing the part of hero.

"You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment.

"You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box."

He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could. But when he had finished, she wasn't laughing. For a moment his impulse was to lay before her the whole story--the bitter climax, the ashen climax, which lately he had thought so beautiful. She had said that nothing in the past would matter--but this was of the future, too. Even if she ought to know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was to come. He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilege of being utterly honest with her. To tell her the whole truth might be to destroy his usefulness to her. She might then scorn his help. He must not allow that. Nothing could justify that.

"You are looking very serious," she commented.