“It was everything, Uncle George—­the sweetness of it all—­her pride in her husband—­his doubts of her—­her repentance; and yet she did what she thought was for the best; and then his forgiveness and the way he wanted to take her in his arms at last and she would not until she explained.  And there was nothing really to explain—­only love, and trust, and truth—­all the time believing in him—­loving him.  Oh, it is cruel to part people—­it’s so mean and despicable!  There are so many Tackletons—­and the May Fieldings go to the altar and so on to their graves—­and there is often such a very little difference between the two.  I never gave my promise to Mr. Willits.  I would not!—­I could not!  He kept hoping and waiting.  He was very gentle and patient—­he never coaxed nor pleaded, but just—­Oh, Uncle George!—­let me talk it all out—­I have nobody else.  I missed you so, and there was no one who could understand, and you wouldn’t answer my letters.”  She was crying softly to herself, her beautiful head resting on her elbow pillowed on the back of his chair.

He leaned forward the closer:  he loved this girl next best to Harry.  Her sorrows were his own.  Was it all coming out as he had hoped and prayed for?  He could hardly restrain himself in his eagerness.

“Did you miss anybody else, Kate?” There was a peculiar tenderness in his voice.

She did not raise her head nor did she answer.  St. George waited and repeated the question, Slipping his hand over hers, as he spoke.

“It was the loneliness, Uncle George,” she replied, evading his inference.  “I tried to forget it all, and I threw open our house and gave parties and dances—­hardly a week but there has been something going on—­but nothing did any good.  I have been—­yes—­wretchedly unhappy and—­No, it will only distress you to hear it—­don’t let’s talk any more about it.  I won’t let you go away again.  I’ll go away with you if you don’t get better soon, anywhere you say.  We’ll go down to the White Sulphur—­Yes—­we’ll go there.  The air is so bracing—­it wouldn’t be a week before all the color would come back to your cheeks and you be as strong as ever.”

He was not listening.  His mind was framing a question—­one he must ask without committing himself or her.  He was running a parallel, really—­reading her heart by a flank movement.

“Kate, dear?” He had regained his position although he still kept hold of her hand.

“Yes, Uncle George.”

“Did you write to Harry, as I asked you?”

“No, it wouldn’t have done any good.  I have had troubles enough of my own without adding any to his.”

“Were you afraid he would not answer it?”

She lifted her head and tightened her fingers about his own, her wet eyes looking into his.

“I was afraid of myself.  I have never known my own mind and I don’t know it now.  I have played fast and loose with everybody—­I can’t bind up a broken arm and then break it again.”