“And if I don’t tell my dearest friend?”

“I shall never speak of it, Peter, but I know sometimes when I am by myself I shall cry over it.  Not because I doubt you, dear, but because you won’t give me your confidence.”

“Do you know, Dear-heart, that I can’t bear the thought of your doing that!”

“Of course not, dear.  That’s the reason I tell you.  I knew you couldn’t bear it.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I understand you, dear.  I know just what you are.  I’m the only person who does.”

“Tell me what I am.”

“I think, dear, that something once came into your life that made you very miserable, and took away all your hope and ambition.  So, instead of trying to make a great position or fortune, you tried to do good to others.  You found that you could do the most good among the poor people, so you worked among them.  Then you found that you needed money, so you worked hard to get that.  Then you found that you could help most by working in politics, so you did that.  And you have tried to gain power so as to increase your power for good.  I know you haven’t liked a great deal you have had to do.  I know that you much prefer to sit before your study fire and read than sit in saloons.  I know that you would rather keep away from tricky people than to ask or take their help.  But you have sacrificed your own feelings and principles because you felt that they were not to be considered if you could help others.  And, because people have laughed at you or misunderstood, you have become silent and unsocial, except as you have believed your mixing with the world to be necessary to accomplish good.”

“What a little idealist we are!”

“Well, dear, that isn’t all the little idealist has found out.  She knows something else.  She knows that all his life her ideal has been waiting and longing for some one who did understand him, so that he can tell her all his hopes and feelings, and that at last he has found her, and she will try to make up for all the misery and sacrifice he has endured She knows, too, that he wants to tell her everything.  You mustn’t think, dear, that it was only prying which made me ask you so many questions.  I—­I really wasn’t curious except to see if you would answer, for I felt that you didn’t tell other people your real thoughts and feelings, and so, whenever you told me, it was really getting you to say that you loved me.  You wanted me to know what you really are.  And that was why I knew that you told me the truth that night.  And that is the reason why I know that some day you will tell me about that lie.”

Peter, whatever he might think, did not deny the correctness of Leonore’s theories concerning his motives in the past or his conduct in the future.  He kissed the soft cheek so near him, tenderly, and said: 

“I like your thoughts about me, dear one.”

“Of course you do,” said Leonore.  “You said once that when you had a fine subject it was always easy to make a fine speech.  It’s true, too, of thoughts, dear.”