y," she answered.

"Ah!" said Goodwin, and repeated it again and again under his breath.
"I might 'most ha' guessed it," he said. "It's well, it's a name that
fits ye like a coat o' paint, Miss James, A clean, straight name,
that is. Mary b'gosh, it was my mother's name."

"I'm glad you like it," said the girl, in her deep-toned, pleasant
voice. "You know, Mr. Goodwin, it was a bit queer the way you made me
come away from the hall."

"Ah, but that's not troublin' you," replied Goodwin quickly. "I
reckon you know what's wrong wi' me, Miss James. I'm not askin' you
for much yet; only to let me see you, when you go to that
mission-joint, and talk to ye sometimes."

They were at an intersection of streets, where a few shops yet shone
and surface-cars went by like blazing ships. There was a movement of
folk about them; yet, by reason of what had passed between them, it
seemed that they stood in a solitude of queer, strained feeling. The
girl halted in the light of a shop-window.

"I get my car here," she said.

Goodwin stopped, facing her. She looked up at the tense seriousness
of his young, set face, hard and strong, with the wind-tan coloring
it. She was kindly, eager to handle him tactfully, and possibly a
little warmed by his sincerity and admiration. To him she seemed the
sum of all that was desirable, pathetic, and stirring in womanhood.

"No," she said; "that's not much to ask. I'll be glad to meet you at
the mission, Mr. Goodwin, and maybe we can talk, too, sometimes. And
when you go away again, when your ship sails."

"Eh?" Goodwin's exclamation interrupted her. "Goin' away? Why, Miss
James, I ain't goin' away. That was all fixed up last night. I've
quit goin' to sea."

She stared at him, with parted lips.

"You don't understand," said Goodwin gently. "I knew, just as soon as
I seen you, that I wasn't going away no more. I went down an' fetched
my dunnage ashore right off."

She continued to stare. "Not going away?" she repeated.

Goodwin shook his head, smiling. He did not in the least understand
the embarrassment of a young woman who finds herself unexpectedly the
object of a romantic and undesired sacrifice.

A street-car jarred to a halt beside them. The girl made a queer
little gesture, as if in fear.

"My car!" she flustered indistinctly, and, turning suddenly, ran from
him towards it, taking refuge in its ordinariness against Goodwin and
all the strangeness with which he seemed to assail her