“But,” objected he, “the sleeve will not do.  I do not wear my heart upon my sleeve, Molly.”  She turned her head abruptly.  For the first time in his life he had dared to call her Molly, and was trembling at his boldness.  At first he took the movement for a prompt rebuke:  then, deciding that she had not heard, he was at once relieved and disappointed.

But be sure she had heard.  And she was not angry:  only—­this was not the old Johnny Whitelamb, but another man in speech and accent, and she felt more than a little afraid of him.

“Tell me more of Hetty,” she commanded, and resting one hand on her staff pointed to the south-west, where, over the coping of the wall, out of a pure green chasm infinitely deep between reddened clouds of sunset, the evening star looked down.

He knew the meaning of the sudden gesture.  Had not Hetty ever been her Star?

“She is beautiful as ever.  You never saw so sad a face:  the sadder because it is never morose.”

“I believe, John, you loved her best of us all.”

“I worshipped her.  To be her servant, or her dog, would have been enough for me.  I never dared to think of her as—­as—­”

—­“As you thought, for example, of her crippled sister, whom you protected.”

“Molly!” He drew back.  “Ah, if I dared—­if I dared!” she heard him stammer, and faced him swiftly, with a movement he might have misread for anger, but for the soul shining in her eyes.

“Dare, then!”

“But I am penniless,” said he, a few moments later.  For him the heavens still spun and the earth reeled:  but out of their turmoil this hard truth emerged as a rock from the withdrawing flood.

“God will provide for us.  He knows that I cannot wait—­and you—­you must forget that I was unmaidenly and wooed you:  for I did, and it’s useless to deny it.  But I have known—­known—­oh, for ever so long!  And I have a short while to be happy!”

Either he did not hear or he let slip her meaning.  His eyes were on the star, now almost level with the wall’s coping.

“And this has come to me:  to me—­that was once Johnny Whitelamb of the Charity School!”

“And to me,” she murmured; “to me—­poor Grizzle, whom even her parents despised.  The stars shine upon all.”

“I remember,” he said, musing, “at Oxford, one night, walking back to college with your brother John.  We had been visiting the prisoners in Bocardo.  As we turned into the Turl between Exeter and Jesus colleges there, at the end of the street—­it is little more than a lane—­beyond the spire of All Saints’ this planet was shining.  John told me its name, and with a sudden accord we stood still for a moment, watching it.  ‘Do you believe it inhabited?’ I asked.  ‘Why not?’ he said.  ’Then why not, as this world, by sinners:  and if by sinners, by souls crying for redemption in Christ?’ ‘Ay,’ said he,’ for aught we know the son of God may pass along the heavens adding martyrdom to martyrdom, may even at this moment be bound on a cross in some unseen planet swinging around one in this multitude of stars.  But,’ he broke off, ’what have we to do with this folly of speculation?  This world is surely parish enough for a man, and in it he may be puzzled all his days to save his own soul out of the many millions.’”