"I'm—I'm tired," faltered she. A hand was laid upon her arm, some one guided her out of the heated, breathless room; they were alone, she and he, under wide-spreading trees, and a particularly lovely star was pulsing overhead.
"You are crying!" Travers's voice was low and tense. "Why?"
"It—it was the music! It was like something I had heard, and—and I was so tired. I was very foolish. Can you, can Margaret, forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Why, you were—I dare not tell you what you were! Here, sit down. Do not tremble so! Tell me, where did you learn to dance as you do?"
Priscilla had dropped upon the rough rustic seat; she did not seem to notice the hand that rested upon her clasped ones under the thin scarf. She no longer cried, but the tears shone on her long lashes.
"I—I never learned. It—it is I, myself. I thought I had grown into something else, but—I shall always be the same—when I let myself go."
"Let yourself go? Good heavens! Why not let yourself go—forever?" Travers's voice shook. "You have brought joy and youth to us all—to me, who never had youth. What—who are you?" he laughed boyishly. She sat rigidly erect and turned her sad eyes upon him.
"I'm Priscilla Glynn—a nurse! And you? Oh! you are Doctor Travers! Can you not see my beautiful, happy, happy life is ended—must end? Margaret, you, everything this joyous summer has made me—forget. Soon I am going back—where there is no dancing!"
"And—cease to be yourself?"
"Yes. But I shall always remember. Not many have had the wonderful glimpse I have had—not many."