work, Nell; you are walking on thin ice—some day he will break down, and then———"
'Hush!" I say, pale as death; "do you know what it is that you are saying—do you know that he loves me? You do not know Paul, or me. We might meet each other for years and years, just as we do now, content with having a glimpse of each other now and then (I don't deny that it is my greatest happiness on earth to see him, to hear his voice; it is sinful, I dare say, but it is human nature), and never ask, never dream, of being any more to each other—how can we ever be anything to each other all our life long? And if this one consolation were taken from me, if I never saw his face . . . I could not bear my life. Paul! . . . Paul! . . . and that is why I love the child so passionately. . . . I may not give a sign of the love I bear the father, there is no sin in loving the child. When Paul came back, George, I was afraid, just as you are now; I seemed to see all the danger of our meeting . . . and I tried so hard to make myself cold, indifferent, uncaring; but I could not—only after the first meeting was over, I found it so much more easy than I had thought it would be . . . and I gradually got to feel quite safe; and now, do you know, that I am not afraid of seeing him, I am almost happy sometimes."
'Happy!" cries George, with a deep, strong urgency in his voice, "ay! as happy as the man who lies down in the snow and, abandoning himself to the exquisite slumber that creeps over him, perishes miserably. . . . Far better and more wholesome for you were your keen sharp fears, your consciousness of danger, than your present easy sense of security."
"George!" I say, sharply and suddenly, "what is it that you are afraid of—what do you mean?"
There is the silence of a few seconds; brave man, true friend
