with his glass. Tillie rose to take it away. As she
stood before him she looked up into his face.

"If you like her as well as I think you do, Mr. Le Moyne, you won't let
him get her."

"I am afraid that's not up to me, is it? What would I do with a wife,
Tillie?"

"You'd be faithful to her. That's more than he would be. I guess, in the
long run, that would count more than money."

That was what K. took home with him after his encounter with Tillie. He
pondered it on his way back to the street-car, as he struggled against
the wind. The weather had changed. Wagon-tracks along the road were
filled with water and had begun to freeze. The rain had turned to a
driving sleet that cut his face. Halfway to the trolley line, the dog
turned off into a by-road. K. did not miss him. The dog stared after
him, one foot raised. Once again his eyes were like Tillie's, as she had
waved good-bye from the porch.

His head sunk on his breast, K. covered miles of road with his long,
swinging pace, and fought his battle. Was Tillie right, after all, and
had he been wrong? Why should he efface himself, if it meant Sidney's
unhappiness? Why not accept Wilson's offer and start over again? Then
if things went well--the temptation was strong that stormy afternoon. He
put it from him at last, because of the conviction that whatever he did
would make no change in Sidney's ultimate decision. If she cared enough
for Wilson, she would marry him. He felt that she cared enough.

CHAPTER XV

Palmer and Christine returned from their wedding trip the day K.
discovered Tillie. Anna Page made much of the arrival, insisted on
dinner for them that night at the little house, must help Christine
unpack her trunks and arrange her wedding gifts about the apartment. She
was brighter than she had been for days, more interested. The wonders of
the trousseau filled her with admiration and a sort of jealous envy for
Sidney, who could have none of these things. In a pathetic sort of way,
she mothered Christine in lieu of her own daughter.

And it was her quick eye that discerned something wrong. Christine was
not quite happy. Under her excitement was an undercurrent of reserve.
Anna, rich in maternity if in nothing else, felt it, and in reply to
some speech of Christine's that struck her as hard, not quite fitting,
she gave her a gentle admonishing.

"Married life takes a little adjusting, my dear," she said. "After we
have lived to ourselves for a n