"But, John, dear," she murmured tenderly, pityingly, "I do understand."
"No," he contradicted, gently, "you don't; you can't; it is not for you to understand."
He stood up, and looking down at her where she sat, smiled sadly. The bell in the tower of the library rang out upon the stillness, six times—tang—ting—tang—ting—tang—ting!
"But perhaps you can feel a little as I feel and know something of how I have felt for weeks. I shall go back to-morrow." There was no drama in the declaration. It was uttered calmly.
The girl stood up now suddenly and leaned toward him.
"What do you mean?" she asked, "you're not really going—going back—there?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm going back. I am going to try to find what has been stolen from me. I am going to try to rid myself of my unrest; to undo for myself the wrong that all unconsciously has been done me, by hands that have hit me when they only meant to be gentle. I'm going back, Janet, to work in the moulding-room beside my father."
She stared into his face, in mute wonder.
"And give up your course, John? Now!" she cried, as the full force of his determination dawned upon her.