start afresh
at the law; I mean to make myself count. And I need you."

He rose and looked down at her. It was as though by this act he
presented himself as a rehabilitated Thomas Kirkwood; a man ready to
grapple with the world afresh for her sake. He bent over and touched
lightly her hands clasped quietly upon her knee.

"Dear Nan: I love you, Nan," he said softly, and stepped back, waiting
for her to speak.

She raised her head and their eyes met.

"Tom," she said, "you are the dearest of men; but that is not for you
and me. It will never be for you and me. And please, Tom, because you
are the finest of men, never speak of this again. You will promise,
won't you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly; "I will not promise. You have
reasons and I think I know what they are. I want to talk to you soon,
for this has been in my heart a long time. I meant to speak to you last
spring. But now the need is greater. I not only need you, but Phil needs
you."

She smiled at the mention of Phil.

"That's a poor argument. Phil really doesn't need any one but you. I
should be afraid of spoiling dear, splendid Phil."

It was upon this that Rose and Phil came in from the kitchen. Rose was
taller than her sister, a slender, handsome woman, with an air of
distinction which dishwashing in no wise abated. She was one of those
American women who wear an apron like a vestment--who, the _vestis
domestica_ flung aside, adorn the parlor as charmingly as they grace the
kitchen.

Phil began to whistle a tune, which Rose tried to identify for her by
striking the chords.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Phil, turning from the piano.

"Discussing the origin of the pyramids," replied Nan, rising. "You and
Rose must have settled something in all the time you took to the dishes.
It was a noisy session, too. You must have been playing drop the
teacup."

Phil clasped her hands dramatically, reciting:--

"A moment then,
She poised upon the dishpan's utmost verge
The heirloom teapot old, with flowers bedight.
And with a cry--"

She paused, feigning forgetfulness. Her father rose quickly and caught
up the imaginary fragment:--

"And with a cry
As when some greedy wight, on porridge keen,
Gulps it, and bawleth loud to find it hot,--
Screams for the cook and tuggeth at his sword--"

"Familiar," observed Rose dreamily from the piano. "Is it 'Pelleas and
Etar