"I'd like you to know," she answered, "that you and my son--you are all I have in the world. The two of you. And my son has some secret from me.
"I have been so lonely too. But I don't feel lonely any more. Your friendship for me...."
"Yes, I am your friend. Think of me like that. Your friend from the first moment I saw you--you so quiet and gentle and unhappy. I realized your unhappiness instantly. No one else in this place seemed to notice it. I believe God meant us to be friends, meant me to bring you happiness--a little...."
"Happiness?" she shivered. "Isn't it cold to-night? Do you see that strange green cloud? Ah, now it is gone. All the light is going.... Do you believe in God?"
He came closer to her. His hand touched her arm.
"Yes," he answered fiercely. "And He means me to care for you." His hand, trembling, stroked her arm. She did not move. His hand, shaking, touched her neck. He bent forward and kissed her neck, her mouth, then her eyes.
She leant her head wearily for an instant on his shoulder, then, whispering good-night, she turned and went quietly up the path.
Chapter II
Souls on Sunday
I must have been thirteen or fourteen years of age--it may have been indeed in this very year '97--when I first read Stevenson's story of Treasure Island. It is the fashion, I believe, now with the Clever Solemn Ones to despise Stevenson as a writer of romantic Tushery,