thing, and
left her no more than the old, blind, unformed protest. He must not
go! She could not let him go!

But the words she had spoken had caught him, after all. He had been
pondering--had been trying to set them aside as if unheard.

"Coming back?" he began, and stopped short once more. They were now
both within the shelter of the old building.

"Yes, Merne!" she broke out suddenly. "When are you coming back to me,
Merne?"

He stood icy silent, motionless, for just a moment. It seemed to her
as if he was made of stone. Then he spoke very slowly, deliberately.

"Coming back to _you_? And you call me by that name? Only my mother,
Mr. Jefferson and Will Clark ever did so."

"Oh, stiff-necked man! It is so hard to be kind with you! And all I
have ever done--every time I have followed you in this way, each time
I have humiliated myself thus--it always was only in kindness for
you!"

He made no reply.

"Fate ran against us, Merne," she went on tremblingly. "We have both
accepted fate. But in a woman's heart are many mansions. Is there none
in a man's--in yours--for me? Can't I ask a place in a good man's
heart--an innocent, clean place? Oh, think not you have had all the
unhappiness in your own heart! Is all the world's misery yours? I
don't want you to go away, Merne, but if you do--if you must--won't
you come back? Oh, won't you, Merne?"

Her voice was trembling, her hand half raised, her eyes sought after
him. She stood partly in shadow, the flare of light from the open door
falling over her face. She might have been some saint of old in
pictured guise; but she was a woman, alive, beautiful, delectable,
alluring--especially now, with this tone in her voice, this strangely
beseeching look in her eyes.

Her hands were almost lifted to be held out to him. She stood almost
inclined to him, wholly unconscious of her attitude, forgetting that
her words were imploring, remembering only that he was going.

He seemed not to hear her voice as he stood there, but somewhere as if
out of some savage past, a voice did speak to him, saying that when a
man is sore athirst, then a man may drink--that the well-spring would
not miss the draft, and would tell no tale of it!

He stood, as many another man has stood, and fought the fight many
another man has fought--the fight between man the primitive and man
the gentleman, chivalry contending with impulse, blood warring with
breeding.

[Illustration: "'Oh, Theo, what ha