Into himself again!—­silently companioned by the shadows of old thoughts; far from her—­farther than he had ever been.  For a while she lay there, watching him, scarcely breathing; then a faint shiver of utter loneliness came over her—­of desire for his attention, his voice, his friendship, and the expression of it.  But he never moved; his eyes seemed dull and unseeing; his face strangely gaunt to her, unfamiliar, hard.  In the dim light he seemed but the ghost of what she had known, of what she had thought him—­a phantom, growing vaguer, more unreal, slipping away from her through the fading light.  And the impulse to arouse herself and him from the dim danger—­to arrest the spell, to break it, and seize what was their own in life overwhelmed her; and she sat up, grasping the great arms of her chair, slender, straight, white-faced in the gloom.

But he did not stir.  Then unreasoning, instinctive fear confused her, and she heard her own voice, sounding strangely in the twilight: 

“What has come between us, Captain Selwyn?  What has happened to us?  Something is all wrong, and I—­I ask you what it is, because I don’t know.  Tell me.”

He had lifted his head at her first word, hesitatingly, as though dazed.

“Could you tell me?” she asked faintly.

“Tell you what, child?”

“Why you are so silent with me; what has crept in between us?  I”—­the innocent courage sustaining her—­“I have not changed—­except a little in—­in the way you wished.  Have you?”

“No,” he said in an altered voice.

“Then—­what is it?  I have been—­you have left me so much alone this winter—­and I supposed I understood—­”

“My work,” he said; but she scarcely knew the voice for his.

“I know; you have had no time.  I know that; I ought to know it by this time, for I have told myself often enough.  And yet—­when we are together, it is—­it has been—­different.  Can you tell me why?  Do you think me changed?”

“You must not change,” he said.

“No,” she breathed, wondering, “I could not—­except—­a little, as I told you.”

“You must not change—­not even that way!” he repeated in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him—­and believed she had misunderstood him.

“I did not hear you,” she said faintly.  “What did you say to me?”

“I cannot say it again.”

She slowly shook her head, not comprehending, and for a while sat silent, struggling with her own thoughts.  Then, suddenly instinct with the subtle fear which had driven her into speech: 

“When I said—­said that to you—­last summer; when I cried in the swinging seat there—­because I could not answer you—­as I wished to—­did that change you, Captain Selwyn?”

“No.”

“Then y-you are unchanged?”

“Yes, Eileen.”

The first thrill of deep emotion struck through and through her.

“Then—­then that is not it,” she faltered.  “I was afraid—­I have sometimes wondered if it was. . . .  I am very glad, Captain Selwyn. . . .  Will you wait a—­a little longer—­for me to—­to change?”