"But, Mary," he cried, "I--I--Of course I know you can't--now. I know how you feel about your duty to your uncles. I know they need you. I am not asking that you leave them. I ask only that you say you will wait until--until by and by, when--"

"Please, Crawford! No, I can't."

"Mary! You--Oh, but you must say it! Don't tell me you don't love me!"

She was silent. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She could feel them tremble.

"Don't you love me, Mary?" he repeated. "Look up! Look at me! DON'T you love me?"

She did not look up, but she shook her head.

"No, Crawford," she said. "I'm afraid not. Not enough."

She heard him catch his breath, and she longed--Oh, how she longed!--to throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did love him. But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come upon them if she yielded.

"Not enough?" she heard him repeat slowly. "You--you don't love me? Oh, Mary!"

She shook her head.

"I am sorry, Crawford," she said. "I can't tell you how sorry.

Please--please don't think hardly of me, not too hardly. I wish--I wish it were different."

Neither spoke for a moment. Then he said:

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Is there someone else?"

"Oh, no, no! There isn't anyone."

"Then--But you told me--You have let me think--"

"Please! I told you I was not sure of my own feelings. I--I am sure now. I am so sorry you came. I should have written you. I had begun the letter."

Again silence. Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but mirth in it.

"I am a fool," he said. "WHAT a fool I have been!"

"Please, Crawford, don't speak so. . . . Oh, where are you going?"

"I? I don't know. What difference does it make where I go? Good-by."

"Stop, Crawford! Wait! It makes a difference to your father where you go. It makes a difference to me. I--I value your friendship very highly.

I hoped I might keep that. I hoped you would let me be your friend, even though the other could not be. I hoped that."

The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not remember that, nor did he. He was standing by the door, looking out. For a moment he stood there. Then he turned and held out his hand.

"Forgive me, Mary," he said. "I have behaved like a cad, I'm afraid.

When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble down upon his head he--well, he is likely to forget other things.

Forgive me."

She took his hand. She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes filled.

"There is nothing for me to forgive," she said. "If you will forgive me, that is all I ask. And--and let me still be your friend."

"Of course. Bless you, Mary! I--I can't talk any more now. You'll--"

with an attempt at a smile--"you'll have to give me a little time to get my bearings, as your Uncle Shad would say."

"And--and won't you go back to your father? I shall feel so much happier if you do."

He hesitated. Then he nodded.

"If you wish it--yes," he said. "I suppose it is the thing I ought to do. Dad will be happy, at any rate. Oh, Mary, CAN'T you?"

"No, Crawford, no. Yes, your father will be happy. And--and by and by you will be, too, I know. Are you going?"

"Yes, I think I had better. I don't feel like meeting anyone and your Uncle Shad will be here soon, I suppose. Your man here--Isaiah--told me of Mr. Hamilton's sickness. I'm sorry."

"Yes, poor Uncle Zoeth! He is gaining a little, however. Crawford, I won't ask you to stay. Perhaps it will be best for both of us if you do not. But won't you write me just once more? Just to tell me that you and your father are reconciled? I should like to know that. And do forgive me--Oh, do! I HAD to say it, Crawford!"

"I forgive you, Mary. Of course you had to say it. . . . But . . . Well, never mind. Yes, I'll write, of course. I hope . . . No, I can't say that, not now. I'd better go at once, I think, before I . . . Good-by."

He seized her hand, pressed it tightly, took his hat from the table and his bag from the floor and swung out of the door. In the doorway she stood looking after him. At the gate he turned, waved his hand, and hurried on. He did not look back again.

When at half-past six Captain Shadrach, having left Annabel and the boy in charge of the store, came home for supper, Isaiah had some news to tell him. It was surprising news.

"You don't say!" exclaimed the Captain. "Well, well, I want to know! All the way from out West, eh? Sho! Where is he now?"

Isaiah shook his head. "That's the funny part of it, he's gone," he said.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know. All I know is he come and said he wanted to see Mary-'Gusta--I went up and told her and she come down to see him. I stayed up along of Zoeth until Debby T. came back from her shoppin'

cruise. Then I come downstairs again and his hat and bag was gone. There wan't n.o.body here."

"Where was Mary-'Gusta? Where is she now?"

"Up in her room, I cal'late. I heard her movin' round there a spell ago."

Shadrach went up the stairs, along the hall, and knocked at Mary's door.

"Who is it?" asked a faint voice within.

"It's your Uncle Shad, Mary-'Gusta. Can I come in?"

"Yes."

He entered. There was no lamp and the room was dark.