sed. Her brows and eyes became troubled. She seemed to
gather herself together for an effort and spoke at length, without
looking at him. "Mr. Brumley," she said, "before I knew anything of the
will----. On the very evening when Isaac died----. I knew----I would
never marry again. Never."

Mr. Brumley did not stir. He remained regarding her with a mournful
expression.

"I was sure of it then," she said, "I knew nothing about the will. I
want you to understand that--clearly."

She said no more. The still pause lengthened. She forced herself to meet
his eyes.

"I thought," he said after a silent scrutiny, and left her to imagine
what he had thought....

"But," he urged to her protracted silence, "you _care_?"

She turned her face away. She looked at the hand lying idle upon her
crape-covered knee. "You are my dearest friend," she said very softly.
"You are almost my only friend. But----. I can never go into marriage
any more...."

"My dear," he said, "the marriage you have known----."

"No," she said. "No sort of marriage."

Mr. Brumley heaved a profound sigh.

"Before I had been a widow twenty-four hours, I began to realize that I
was an escaped woman. It wasn't the particular marriage.... It was any
marriage.... All we women are tied. Most of us are willing to be tied
perhaps, but only as people are willing to be tied to life-belts in a
wreck--from fear from drowning. And now, I am just one of the free
women, like the women who can earn large incomes, or the women who
happen to own property. I've paid my penalties and my service is
over.... I knew, of course, that you would ask me this. It isn't that I
don't care for you, that I don't love your company and your help--and
the love and the kindness...."

"Only," he said, "although it is the one thing I desire, although it is
the one return you can make me----. But whatever I have done--I have
done willingly...."

"My dear!" cried Mr. Brumley, breaking out abruptly at a fresh point, "I
want you to marry me. I want you to be mine, to be my dear close
companion, the care of my life, the beauty in my life.... I can't frame
sentences, my dear. You know, you know.... Since first I saw you, talked
to you in this very garden...."

"I don't forget a thing," she answered. "It has been my life as well as
yours. Only----"

The grip of her hand tightened on the back of their seat. She seemed to
be examining her thumb intently. Her voice sank to a whisper. "I won't