Chapter CC: Section 10: Thyesis came home after three weeks, browned and refreshed,

and ready to take up the struggle again. He came with the cup of his love and sympathy overflowing; eager to see Corydon, and to tell her his adventures, and to share with her his store of new hope.

He found her reclining on the piazza of the farm-house. The April buds were bursting upon the trees, and the odor of spring was in the air; also, the flush of health was stealing back into Corydon’s cheeks. How beautiful she looked, and how soft and gentle was her caress, and what wistfulness and tenderness were in the smile with which she greeted him!

There was the baby also, tumultuous and excited. Thyrsis took him upon his knee, and while he fondled him and played with him, he told Corydon about his trip. But in a short while it became evident to him that she had something on her mind; and finally she sent the baby away to play, and began, “There is something I have to tell you.”

“Yes, dear?” he said.

“It is something very, very important.”

“Yes?” he repeated.

“I--I don’t know just how to begin,” said Corydon. “I hope you are not going to be angry.”

“I can’t imagine myself being angry just now,” he replied; and then, struck by a sense of familiarity in this introduction, he asked, with a smile, “You haven’t been seeing Harry Stuart, have you?”

Corydon frowned at the words. “Don’t speak of that!” she said, quickly. “I am not joking.”

He saw that she was agitated, and so he fell silent.

“I hesitated a long time about telling you,” she went on. “But you must know. I am sure it’s right to tell you.”

“By all means, dearest,” he answered.

“It’s a long story,” she said. “I must go back to my first operation.” And then she began, and told him how she had found herself thinking of Mr. Harding, and of the strange vision she had had; she told of all her fevered excitements, and of her confession to him. When she finished she was trembling all over, and her face and throat were flushed.

Thyrsis sat for a while in silence, looking very grave. “I see,” he said.

“You--you are not angry with me?” she asked.

“No, I’m not angry,” he replied. “But tell me, what has been going on since?”

“Well,” said Corydon, “Mr. Harding has been coming here to see me. He saw I needed help, and he couldn’t refuse it. It was--it was his duty to come.”

“Yes,” said the other. “Go on.”

“Well, I think he had an idea that the whole thing was a product of my sickness; and when I was well again, it would all be over.”

“And is it, Corydon?”

She sat staring in front of her; her voice sank to a whisper. “No,” she said. “It--it isn’t.”

“And does he know that?” asked Thyrsis.

“He knows everything,” she replied. “I don’t need to tell him things.”

“But have you talked about it with him?”

“A little,” she said. “That is, you see, I had to explain to him--to apologize for what I had done in the hospital. I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t have said anything to him, if I hadn’t been so very ill.”

“I see,” said Thyrsis.

“And I want you to understand,” added Corydon, quickly-“you must not blame him. For he’s the soul of honor, Thyrsis; and he can’t help how he feels about me-any more than I can help it. You must know that, dear!”

“Yes, I know that.”

“He’s been so good and so noble about it. He thinks so much of you, Thyrsis--he wouldn’t do you wrong, not by a single word. He said that to me---over and over again. He’s frightened, you know, that either of us might do wrong. He’s so sensitive-I think he takes things more seriously than anybody we’ve ever known.”

“I understand,” said Thyrsis; and then, after a pause, he inquired, “But what’s to come of it?”

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“What are you going to do?”

“Why, I don’t know that there’s anything to do, Thyrsis. What would there be?”

“But are you going on being in love with him forever?”

“I--I don’t see how I can tell, Thyrsis. Would it do any harm?”

“It might grow on you,” he said, with a slight smile. “It sometimes does.”

“Mr. Harding said we ought never to speak of it again,” said she. “And I guess he’s right about that. He said that our lives would always be richer, because we had discovered each other’s souls; that it would help us to grow into a nobler life.”

“I see,” said Thyrsis. “But it’s a trifle disconcerting at first. I’ll need a little time to get used to it.”

“Mr. Harding is very anxious to know you better,” remarked Corydon. “But you see, he’s afraid of you, Thyrsis. You are so direct--you get to the point too quickly for him.”

“Um--yes,” said he. “I can imagine that.”

“And he thinks you distrust him,” she went on--“just because he’s orthodox. But he’s really not half as backward as you think. His faith means a great deal to him. I only wish I had such a faith in my own life.”

To which Thyrsis responded, “God knows, my dear, I wish you had.”