Her sympathy touched the right chord.  It was not obtrusive, it had no hint of pity; it was simply that one who had been hurt fully understood the hurt of another.  Ralph felt a mysterious kinship.

“I’ve wanted for some time to ask you,” he began awkwardly, “if there was not something I could do for you.  The—­the veil, you know—­” He stopped, at a loss for further words.

“Yes?” Miss Evelina’s voice was politely inquiring.  She thought it odd for Anthony Dexter’s son to be concerned about her veil.  She wondered whether he meditated giving her a box of chiffon, as Piper Tom had done.

“Believe me,” he said, impetuously, “I only want to help.  I want to make it possible for you to take that—­to take that thing off.”

“It is not possible,” returned Miss Evelina, after a painful interval.  “I shall always wear my veil.”

“You don’t understand,” explained Ralph.  It seemed to him that he had spent the day telling women they did not understand.  “I know, of course, that there was some dreadful accident, and that it happened a long time ago.  Since then, wonderful advances have been made in surgery—­there is a great deal possible now that was not dreamed of then.  Of course I should not think of attempting it myself, but I would find the man who could do it, take you to him, and stand by you until it was over.”

The clock ticked loudly and a little bird sang outside, but there was no other sound.

“I want to help you,” said Ralph, humbly, as he rose to his feet; “believe me, I want to help you.”

Miss Evelina said nothing, but she followed him to the door.  At the threshold, Ralph turned back.  “Won’t you let me help you?” he asked.  “Won’t you even let me try?”

“I thank you,” said Miss Evelina, coldly, “but nothing can be done.”

The door closed behind him with a portentous suggestion of finality.  As he went down the path, Ralph felt himself shut out from love and from all human service.  He did not look back to the upper window, where Araminta was watching, her face stained with tears.

As he went out of the gate, she, too, felt shut out from something strangely new and sweet, but her conscience rigidly approved, none the less.  Against Aunt Hitty’s moral precepts, Araminta leaned securely, and she was sure that she had done right.

The Maltese kitten was purring upon a cushion, the loved story book lay on the table nearby.  Doctor Ralph was going down the road, his head bowed.  They would never see each other again—­never in all the world.

She would not tell Aunt Hitty that Doctor Ralph had asked her to marry him; she would shield him, even though he had insulted her.  She would not tell Aunt Hitty that Doctor Ralph had kissed her, as the man in the story book had kissed the lady who came back to him.  She would not tell anybody.  “Never in all the world,” thought Araminta.  “We shall never see each other again.”