She made as though to go to her room. And James Hartmann, still full of that new fear of his own good fortune, dared not stay her.
But Peter Grimm did not hesitate.
"Katje!" pleaded the Dead Man. "Is Happiness so common that we can toy with it? Is life's greatest joy so cheap that we can thrust it aside when by a miracle it is laid at our feet? Can we afford to risk everything by putting off love when it is in our very grasp?"
The girl hesitated, paused, and seemed to busy herself with straightening some disarranged articles on the desk. The Dead Man came and stood beside her.
"He loves you, Katje," he murmured. "And only one thing really counts—Love! It is the only thing that tells, in the long run. Nothing else endures to the end. Perhaps, if you are shy now and do not let him speak, he may find courage to speak to-morrow. But perhaps he may not. And are you willing to take that chance?"
"No!" cried the girl in quick fear. "No!"
"What?" asked Hartmann, startled by the frightened denial, so meaningless to him.
"I—I didn't know I spoke," she faltered, embarrassed. "It was foolish of me. I had some strange thought. And——"
"I don't understand."
"You understand less and less every minute, James," laughed Peter Grimm. "She loves you. Are you going to let her slip through your fingers just because you haven't the courage to speak? You were brave enough early this evening when you didn't have a chance. Now that she's yours for the asking, why be tongue-tied? It was the fear of losing you that made her cry out 'No!' just now."