"There can be no reason," said Catherine; "no good reason."
"His happiness depends upon it. Is not that a good reason?" asked Mrs. Penniman, impressively.
"Not for me. My happiness does not."
"I think you will be happier after you have seen him. He is going away again going to resume his wanderings. It is a very lonely, restless, joyless life. Before he goes, he wishes to speak to you; it is a fixed idea with him—he is always thinking of it. He has something very important to say to you. He believes that you never understood him—that you never judged him rightly, and the belief has always weighed upon him terribly. He wishes to justify himself; he believes that in a very few words he could do so. He wishes to meet you as a friend."
Catherine listened to this wonderful speech, without pausing in her work; she had now had several days to accustom herself to think of Morris Townsend again as an actuality. When it was over she said simply, "Please say to Mr. Townsend that I wish he would leave me alone."
She had hardly spoken when a sharp, firm ring
