She had worked herself into a fine tantrum, but there was behind it all a horrible fear and shrinking from the Christ he had described, the shrinking of the naked soul in the garden from its God.  The drooping, child-like eyes were wide with horror now; the sweet, innocent mouth was trembling with emotion.  She was anything but Solveig-like.  If Courtland caught a glimpse of the real Gila through it all he laid it to his own clumsy way of handling the delicate mystery of a girl’s shy nature.  He saw she was wrought up beyond her own control, and he was so far under the illusion that he blamed himself only, and set himself to calm her.

He coaxed her to sit down again, put his strong hand on her quivering one, marveling in tenderness at its smallness and softness.  He talked to her in quiet, soothing tones, grave and reassuring.  He promised he would talk no more about the Presence till she was ready to hear.  He was leaning toward her in his strength, his arm behind her, his hand on her shoulder, with a sheltering, comforting touch when he told her this, as one would treat a little child in trouble, and, suddenly, like the sun flashing out from behind the clouds, she lifted up her teary face and smiled, nestling toward him, her head falling down on his shoulder with a sigh like a tired, satisfied child, her face lifted temptingly so close, so very close to his.

It was then that he did the thing that bound him to what followed.  He stooped and laid his lips upon her warm little trembling ones and kissed her.  The thrill that shot through him was like the click of shackles snapping shut about one’s wrist; like the turning of the key in a prison-house; the shooting of the bolt to one’s dark cell.  He held her there and touched her soft hair with his finger-tips; touched her cool little forehead with his lips; touched her warm, soft lips again and felt the thrill; but something was the matter.  He felt the surging forces within him rise and batter at the gate of his self-control.  He wanted to say, “Gila, I love you!” but the words stuck in his throat.

What had he done?  Whence came this sense of defeat and loss?  The Presence!  Where was the Presence?  Yes—­there—­but withdrawn, standing apart in sadness, while he sat comforting and caressing one who had just said she hated Him!  But that was because she had not seen Him yet!  She was frightened because she did not understand!  He would yet be able to make her see!  He would implore the Presence to come to her; to break down her prejudice; to let her have the vision also!

So he sat and comforted her, yet longed to get away and think it out.  This sense of depression and bitter disappointment hung about him like a burden; now, of all times, when he should be happy if ever he was to be!

But Gila was nestling close, patting his sleeve, talking little, sweet nonsensical words as if she had really been the little child she seemed.  He looked down at her and smiled.  How small she was, and child-like.  He must remember that she was very young, and probably had never had much bringing-up.  Serious things frightened her!  He must go gently and lead her!  It made him feel old and responsible to look at her—­tender, beautiful girl!—­enveloped as she was in the garment of his ideal of womanhood.