He felt that he had grown pale, and wondered if she had heard the groan
that seemed to have been forced from him in the struggle. Or was the
groan imaginary?

Celia continued to sit unmoved, composedly looking upon vacancy.
Theron's eyes searched her face in vain for any sign of consciousness
that she had astounded and bewildered him. She did not seem to be
thinking of him at all. The proud calm of her thoughtful countenance
suggested instead occupation with lofty and remote abstractions and
noble ideals. Contemplating her, he suddenly perceived that what she had
been saying was great, wonderful, magnificent. An involuntary thrill ran
through his veins at recollection of her words. His fancy likened it to
the sensation he used to feel as a youth, when the Fourth of July reader
bawled forth that opening clause: "When, in the course of human events,
it becomes necessary," etc. It was nothing less than another Declaration
of Independence he had been listening to.

He sank again recumbent at her side, and stretched the arm behind her,
nearer than before. "Apparently, then, you will never marry." His voice
trembled a little.

"Most certainly not!" said Celia.

"You spoke so feelingly a little while ago," he ventured along, with
hesitation, "about how sadly the notion of a priest's sacrificing
himself--never knowing what love meant--appealed to a woman. I should
think that the idea of sacrificing herself would seem to her even sadder
still."

"I don't remember that we mentioned THAT," she replied. "How do you