THE BETTER SORT
it was a claim to which he had so abjectly little to oppose. "You mean that it has come as a positive, definite occurrence, with a name and a date?"
"Positive. Definite. I don't know about the 'name,' but, oh, with a date!"
He found himself again too helplessly at sea. "But come in the night—come and passed me by?"
May Bartram had her strange, faint smile. "Oh no, it hasn't passed you by!"
"But if I haven't been aware of it, and it hasn't touched me———?"
"Ah, your not being aware of it," and she seemed to hesitate an instant to deal with this—"your not being aware of it is the strangeness in the strangeness. It's the wonder of the wonder." She spoke as with the softness almost of a sick child, yet now at last, at the end of all, with the perfect straightness of a sybil. She visibly knew that she knew, and the effect on him was of something co-ordinate, in its high character, with the law that had ruled him. It was the true voice of the law; so on her lips would the law itself have sounded. "It has touched you," she went on. "It has done its office. It has made you all its own."
"So utterly without my knowing it?"
"So utterly without your knowing it." His hand, as he leaned to her, was on the arm of her chair, and, dimly smiling always now, she placed her own on it. "It's enough if I know it."
"Oh!" he confusedly sounded, as she herself of late so often had done.
"What I long ago said is true. You'll never know now, and I think you ought to be content. You've had it," said May Bartram.
"But had what?"
"Why, what was to have marked you out. The proof of your law. It has acted. I'm too glad," she
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