He put his head down upon his hand and answered in a low tone:
"It is impossible that there should be."
"Larry," she said, "only you can find out whether that is true or not, and—don't go away before you are quite sure. Oh! do you remember what I told you once?—there is only one thing in all the world when all the rest are tried and done with. So many miss it, and then everything is wrong. Don't be too proud, Larry; don't reason too much. If people are true to each other, and content, what does the rest matter? I want to know that some one is happy like that. I wish it might be you. If I have said too much, forgive me; but you may be angry with me. I will let you—if you will not run the risk of throwing anything away."
There was a silence.
"Promise me," she said, "promise me."
"I cannot promise you," he answered.
He left his seat.
"I will tell you," he said. "I am driven to-night—driven! I never thought it could be so, but it is—even though I fancied I had taught myself better. I am bearing a good deal. I don't know how far I may trust myself. I have not an idea about it. It is scarcely safe for me to go near her. I have not been near her often to-night. I am driven. I don't know that I shall get out of the house safely. I don't know how far I can go, if I do get out of it, without coming back and making some kind of an outcry to her. One can't bear everything indefinitely. It seems to me now that the only decent end to this would be for me to go as quickly as possible, and not look back; but there never was a more impotent creature than I know I am to-night. The sight of her is too much for me. She looks like a tall, white flower. She is a little pale to-night—and the look in her eyes—I wish she were pale for sorrow—for me. I wish she was suffering; but she is not."
"She could not tell you if she were," said Bertha.