“I know that.  I was not always happy,” said the girl, with the air of making a confession.  “But I liked to hear from time to time of the success of my friends,” she added, ingenuously.  And then, quite inconsequently, “I suppose you have news from Rivervale?”

Yes, Philip heard often from Alice, and he told the news as well as he could, and the talk drifted along—­how strange it seemed!—­about things in which neither of them felt any interest at the moment.  Was there no way to break the barrier that the little brown girl had thrown around herself?  Were all women, then, alike in parrying and fencing?  The talk went on, friendly enough at last, about a thousand things.  It might have been any afternoon call on a dear friend.  And at length Philip rose to go.

“I hope I may see you again, soon.”

“Of course,” said Evelyn, cheerfully.  “I am sure father will be delighted to see you.  He enjoys so little now.”

He had taken both her hands to say good-by, and was looking hungrily into her eyes.

“I can’t go so.  Evelyn, you know, you must know, I love you.”

And before the girl comprehended him he had drawn her to him and pressed his lips upon hers.

The girl started back as if stung, and looked at him with flashing eyes.

“What have you done, what have you done to me?”

Her eyes were clouded, and she put her hands to her face, trembling, and then with a cry, as of a soul born into the world, threw herself upon him, her arms around his neck—­

“Philip, Philip, my Philip!”

XXVII

Perhaps Philip’s announcement of his good-fortune to Alice and to Celia was not very coherent, but his meaning was plain.  Perhaps he was conscious that the tidings would not increase the cheerfulness of Celia’s single-handed struggle for the ideal life; at least, he would rather write than tell her face to face.

However he put the matter to her, with what protestations of affectionate friendship and trust he wrapped up the statement that he made as matter of fact as possible, he could not conceal the ecstatic state of his mind.

Nothing like it certainly had happened to anybody in the world before.  All the dream of his boyhood, romantic and rose-colored, all the aspirations of his manhood, for recognition, honor, a place in the life of his time, were mere illusions compared to this wonderful crown of life—­a woman’s love.  Where did it come from into this miserable world, this heavenly ray, this pure gift out of the divine beneficence, this spotless flower in a humanity so astray, this sure prophecy of the final redemption of the world?  The immeasurable love of a good woman!  And to him!  Philip felt humble in his exaltation, charitable in his selfish appropriation.  He wanted to write to Celia—­but he did not—­that he loved her more than ever.  But to Alice he could pour out his wealth of affection, quickened to all the world by this great love, for he knew that her happiness would be in his happiness.