a
sudden impulse made me say, for I had intended until that instant to
accompany him.

"A man can't eat his bride and have a trousseau, too," he laughed, as he
drove off rapidly, leaving me standing by the old gate watching him.
Then I turned and slowly walked out into the garden and down to the old
graybeards. And seated on one of the grass mats I found the reason I had
unconsciously been drawn back. Martha was waiting for me there.

"Why, Martha," I exclaimed, startled without understanding just why. "I
might have gone and not known you were waiting. Why didn't you come and
tell me you were here?"

"I couldn't--I found I couldn't," she answered me, looking up into my
face with her strange, sad eyes. "I--I suppose I just came to peep in
on you like I did to the coming-out party." She laughed softly, with a
note of self-scorn in her voice.

"Is anything the matter with--with Sonny?" I asked quickly, again
unconsciously using the name for the Stray that her tenderness had given
him. Her white face and desperate manner frightened me.

"No, he's dressed in one of Jimmy Morgan's old suits and he is going to
be taken from me this afternoon forever," she answered with the note of
bitterness deepening.

"But you want him to go to school, don't you, Martha?" I asked
patiently, as I sat down on a mat beside her. I spoke to her as one
speaks to the limited intelligence of a child and I was slightly
impatient at her distress.

"He asked me yesterday why everybody called him Stray and if it did mean
Stranger like Charlotte said, and if he would always be called that or
have an everyday name like Jimmy. Soon he'll know and then I'll lose him
as I'm losing everything else."

"Why won't you let me help you to--to begin over again?" I asked her,
this time with less patience. "Why have you--you locked yourself away
from me?"

"I can't--I won't ever tell you. I must go back, now I've seen you
in--in your happiness. But I don't hate you--I never have." And as she
spoke Martha rose and began to walk rapidly away from me.

"Oh, please don't go, Martha," I said. "In just three days I'll be going
away for a long time, you know, and I want to help you in some way
before I go. You ought to let me, and it worries me that you don't, now
of all times," and as I put my selfish plea for ease to my conscience,
something that was hot and rebellious made me want to stop the woman who
was hurrying away from me.

"I won't, I won't make yo