l if Violet had been right. She had
spoken in measured tones, as if from some very serious, secret, and
sincere conviction.

She went on. "You see, Maudie won't want me any more. They're going to
be married when Fred gets his holiday."

"Yes. But it isn't such a good thing for _you_, is it?"

Her deed thus exposed, presented to her in all the high folly of it, she
seemed to flinch as if she herself were struck with the frightful
indiscretion of her descent from Starker's.

"It's quieter. That's more what I want."

He smiled. Pressed home, she was evasive as she had ever been.

"Look here," he said, as if he were changing the subject. "_You've_ been
found out."

"Found out, Ranny?"

"Yes. What have you been about this last week? I can't have you going
and doing Vi's work for her, you know."

"Oh _that_! That was nothing. I just put things straight a bit, and now
she's got to keep them straight."

He sighed, and reverted. "I don't like your throwing up that good job. I
don't reelly."

He meant to go, leaving it there, all that she had done,
unacknowledged, unexplained between them, as she would have it left. And
instead of going he stood rooted to that doorstep, and to his amazement
he heard himself saying, "I wish I could do something for you, Winny."

And then (he took his own breath away with the abruptness of it). "Look
here--why not come and make your home with us, when Maudie's married?"

She smiled dimly, as if she hardly saw him, as if, instead of standing
beside him on the doorstep, she were saying good-by to him from
somewhere a long way off.

"Oh no, Ranny, that would never do."

"Why not? There's that back room there doing nothing. We don't want it.
You'd be welcome to it if it was any good."

She shook her head slowly. "It's very kind of you, but it wouldn't do.
It really wouldn't. I don't mean the room, Ranny--it's a dear little
room--I mean--I mean, you know----"

Now at last she was embarrassed, helpless, shaken from her defenses by
the suddenness of his proposal.

"All right, Winky," he said, gently.

Then she broke down, but without self-pity, tearless, in her own
fashion.

"Oh, Ranny, _please_ don't think I'm horrid and ungrateful."

"That's all right," he said, feebly.

He turned as if to go; but she recalled him.

"There's one thing you could do," she said.

"What's that? I'll do anything."

"Well--You can let me come over Saturdays and Sundays sometimes and look
afte