But Berkley had no more to say to her--and much that he must not say to her.

And she waited a long while, eyes bent steadily on the velvet carpet at her feet.
The silence endured too long; she knew it, but could not yet break it, or the spell which cradled her tired heart, or the blessed surcease from the weariness of waiting.
Yet the silence was lasting too long, and must be broken quickly.
She looked up, startled, as he rose to take his leave.

It was the only way, now, and she knew it.

And, oh, the time had sped too fast for her, and her heart failed her for all the things that remained unsaid--all the kindness she had meant to give him, all the counsel, the courage, the deep sympathy, the deeper friendship.
But her hand lay limply, coldly in his; her lips were mute, tremulously curving; her eyes asked nothing more.
"Good night, Ailsa." "Good night." There was colour, still, in his marred young face, grace, still, in his body, in the slightly lowered head as he looked down at her.
"I must not come again, Ailsa." Then her pulses died.

"Why ?" "Because--I am afraid to love you." It did not seem that she even breathed, so deathly still she stood.
"Is that---your reason ?" "Yes.