forgotten personality. "Oh, Allan!"

The last was more like a cry. He fell into the chair by which he had
stood. And now the woman erected herself, coming forward to stand before
him, her head bowed, her hands convulsively interlocked.

"Do you see it all, Bernal? Is it plain now? Oh, how it tortured
me--that last Gratcher--the one we make in our own image and yet make to
be perfect. It never hurt me before, but now I know why. It couldn't
hurt me so long as I looked it straight in the eye--but just now my eyes
had to fall before it, and all in a second it was tearing me to pieces.
That's the only defense against this last Gratcher, Bernal, to look it
in the eyes unafraid. And oh, it hurts so--and it's all my own miserable
fault!"

"No, it's your goodness, Nance." He spoke very quietly now. "Only the
good have a Gratcher that can't be laughed away. My own was late in
coming. Your Gratcher has saved us."

He stood up and took her unresisting hands in both his own. They rested
there in peace, yielding themselves like tired children to caring arms.

"Now I shall be healed," she said.

"It will take me longer, Nance. My hurt is more stubborn, more
complicated. I can't help it. Something in me resists. I see now that I
know too much--too much of you, too much of--"

She saw that he must have suffered some illumination upon Allan. There
was a look of bitter comprehension in his face as he broke off. She