Just another of Nature's
sorry jests, isn't it?
It was all so hopeless, so tangled. I leaned against the mantel, relieved
by his going, but unutterably lonely. Just for a moment I feared the
brilliant future that stretched in vista--without love, it looked an
endless level of tedium and weariness. My bitterness towards John melted
and the years we had known each other unrolled themselves before me--
happy, innocent years. I felt his strength and gentleness, and of a sudden
something clutched at my throat. Sob followed sob; I shook in a tearless
convulsion.
Only for an instant. Then I, too, turned to leave the room, but fate or
instinct had brought John back and I was startled by his voice:--
"Nelly, tell me!"
He did not come near me. There was no gust of passion in his tone, yet I
felt as never before the depth of his tenderness. He had not come back to
woo, but as the old friend, ambitious of helpfulness.
"Helen," he said, "how can I leave you, who need protection more than any
other woman, so terribly alone?"
I didn't fear I might be tempted, but I quavered out:--
"John, go away. I've wronged you enough.
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