CHAPTER XX.
IN WHICH JENNY CRIES Jenny was not at the door that evening to welcome Theophil home, as she usually was, and she made some excuse not to join him at dinner; but at last, when the quiet secure hour which had always been theirs between dinner and bedtime had come, she came into his room quietly and sat in her accustomed chair.
She had been fighting all day to gain strength for this hour, and her will was bravely set to speak what must be spoken.

But she must firmly choke back all the sweetness of the memories which sprang to her with kind eyes, as the familiar little room that had not changed opened its arms to her, alas! an ironical symbol of unchangeableness.

One touch of tenderness too vivid and she would break down.
And here was Theophil rising from his desk and coming to her with true love in his eyes, as he had done so many, many happy nights.
Was it, after all, a dream--that terrible picture of two lighted figures that was for ever in her eyes?
No, there was a voice that went day and night with the dream, a voice of terrible tenderness that kept crying: "Meantime I bless thee ...

"-- "I bless thy lamp to oil, thy cup to wine ..." Ah, no, it was real, real.

The trial was not to pass from her in a dream.
Theophil had knelt down at her side and taken her hand gently and would have kissed her, but that her eyes were so full of pain as she turned them to meet his.