future.

She felt that she had gained a point, and she forthwith claimed the
privilege of friendship.

"And being friends," she said, still holding his hand as he stood
beside her, "will you not trust me and tell me what it is that seems to
break your heart? It may be that I can help you."

Gilbert hesitated, and she saw the uncertainty in his face, and pressed
his hand softly as if persuading him to speak.

"Tell me!" she said. "Tell me about yourself!"

Gilbert looked at her doubtfully, looked away, and then turned to her
again. Her voice had a persuasion of its own that appealed to him as
her beauty could not. Almost before he knew what he was doing he was
walking slowly by her left side, in the shade of the church, telling
her his story; and she listened, silently interested, always turning
her face a little toward his, and sometimes meeting his eyes with eyes
of sympathy. He could not have told his tale to a man; he would not
have told it to a woman he loved; but Eleanor represented to him a new
and untried relation, and the sweet, impersonal light of friendship
waked the dark places of his heart to undreamt confidence.

He told her what had befallen him, from first to last, but the sound of
his own words was strange to him; for he found himself telling her what
he had seen two and three years ago, in the light of what he had known
but a few months, yet almost as if he had known it from the first. More
than once he hesitated in his speech, being suddenly struck by the