No one had guessed what was behind her reserve on such subjects; perhaps no one had very greatly cared.
"Gifford!" she said suddenly.

He looked up, surprised at her tone.
"Yes, Helen ?" "I wish," she said, "I wish you were as happy as you deserve to be." He knew what she meant, and would not repay her confidence by pretending not to understand.

"Well, I'm not as happy as I desire, perhaps, but no doubt I'm as happy as I deserve." "No," she answered, "you are not.

And oh, Gifford, there is so much sorrow in the world, the only thing which makes life possible is love, because that is the only thing which does not change." "I am afraid it can never be for me," he said, after a moment's silence, "except the joy of giving love." "Why ?" she asked gently.
Gifford did not speak; he rose, and began to pace up and down in front of the porch, crossing and recrossing the square of light which fell from the open hall door.

"I ought not to talk about it," he said at last.
"I've got it down at the very bottom of my life, a sort of foundation stone on which to build noble things.