“’But, Constance, the stars are the same as always, and we must try to forget that we have seen the sun.  The little lights of the temple must be the more faithfully tended if the Great Light goes out.  When the white splendour fades, we must be content with the misty gold of night, and not mind the shadows nor the great desolate spaces where not even starlight comes.  Your star and mine met for an instant, then were sundered as widely as the poles, but the light of each must be kept steadfast and clear, because of the other.

“’I do not know that I shall have the courage to send this letter.  Everything was said when I told you that I love you, for that one word holds it all and there is nothing more.  As you can take your heart in the hollow of your hand and hold it, it is so small a thing; so the one word ‘love’ holds everything that can be said, or given, or hungered for, or prayed for and denied.

“’And if, sometimes, in the starlight, we dream of the sun, we must remember that both sun and stars are God’s.  Past the unutterable leagues that divide us now, one day we shall meet again, purged, mayhap, of earthly longing for earthly love.

“’But Heaven, for me, would be the hour I held you close again.  I should ask nothing more than to tell you once more, face to face and heart to heart, the words I write now:  I love you—­I love you—­I love you.’”

[Sidenote:  A Discovery]

Roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire.  Barbara’s face was very pale and the light had gone from her eyes.

“Roger,” she said, in a strange tone, “Constance was my mother’s name.  Do you think——­”

He was startled, for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition.  “I—­do—­not—­know,” he said.

“They knew each other,” Barbara went on, swiftly, “for the two families have always lived here, in these same two houses where you and I were born.  It was only a step across the road, and they——­”

[Sidenote:  A Barrier]

She choked back a sob.  Something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and Roger.

The blood beat hard in his ears and his own words sounded dull and far away.  “It is dated June third,” he said.

“My mother died on the seventh,” said Barbara, slowly, “by—­her—­own—­hand.”

They sat in silence for a long time.  Then, speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably.  There was a consciousness as of guilt, on either side.

Roger tried not to think of it.  Later, when he was alone, he would go over it all and try to reason it out—­try to discover if it were true.  Barbara did not need to do this, for, with a woman’s quick insight, she knew.