“You say that,” he answered, “because for you these things are yet living.  To leave life now, therefore, while it is full and sweet, untainted by death, surely that is not a fate to fear.  Better, a thousand times better, to see the cord cut with one blow while it is still whole and strong, and to launch out straight into the great ocean, than to sit watching through the slow years, while strand after strand, thread by thread, loosens and unwinds itself,—­ each with its own separate pang breaking, bringing the bitterness of death without its release.

His manner, the despairing ring in his voice, alarmed me even more than his words.  Clinging to his arm with both hands, while the tears sprang to my eyes—­

“Alan,” I cried, “don’t say such things,—­don’t talk like that.  You are making me miserable.”

He stopped short at my words, with bent head, his features hidden in the shadow thus cast upon them,—­nothing in his motionless form to show what was passing within him.  Then he looked up, and turned his face to the moonlight and to me, laying his hand on one of mine.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “it is all right, my little David.  You have driven the evil spirit away.”  And lifting my hand, he pressed it gently to his lips.  Then drawing it within his arm, he went on, as he walked forward, “And even when it was on me at its worst, I was not meditating suicide, as I think you imagine.  I am a very average specimen of humanity,—­neither brave enough to defy the possibilities of eternity nor cowardly enough to shirk those of time.  No, I was only trying idiotically to persuade a girl of eighteen that life was not worth living; and more futilely still, myself, that I did not wish her to live.  I am afraid, that in my mind philosophy and fact have but small connection with each other; and though my theorizing for your welfare may be true enough, yet,—­ I cannot help it, Evie,—­it would go terribly hard with me if anything were to happen to you.”

His voice trembled as he finished.  My fear had gone with his return to his natural manner, but my bewilderment remained.

“Why should there anything happen to me?” I asked.

“That is just it,” he answered, after a pause, looking straight in front of him and drawing his hand wearily over his brow.  “I know of no reason why there should.”  Then giving a sigh, as if finally to dismiss from his mind a worrying subject—­“I have acted for the best,” he said, “and may God forgive me if I have done wrong.”

There was a little silence after that, and then he began to talk again, steadily and quietly.  The subject was deep enough still, as deep as any that we had touched upon, but both voice and sentiment were calm, bringing peace to my spirit, and soon making me forget the wonder and fear of a few moments before.  Very openly did he talk as we passed on across the long trunk shadows and through the glades of silver light; and I saw farther then into the most sacred recesses of his soul than I have ever done before or since.