that?" he asked unbelievingly.

"Yes, I would," she said sadly. "I must, I will."

"Hush, Angel Face," he pleaded. "You won't do anything like that. You
won't have to. I'll marry you--How would you do it?"

"Oh, I've thought it all out," she continued gloomily. "You know that
little lake. I'd drown myself."

"Don't, sweetheart," he pleaded. "Don't talk that way. It's terrible.
You won't have to do anything like that."

To think of her under the waters of little Okoonee, with its green
banks, and yellow sandy shores. All her love come to this! All her
passion! Her death would be upon his head and he could not stand the
thought of that. It frightened him. Such tragedies occasionally appeared
in the papers with all the pathetic details convincingly set forth, but
this should not enter his life. He would marry her. She was lovely after
all. He would have to. He might as well make up his mind to that now. He
began to speculate how soon it might be. For the sake of her family she
wanted no secret marriage but one which, if they could not be present at
it, they could at least know was taking place. She was willing to come
East--that could be arranged. But they must be married. Eugene realized
the depth of her conventional feeling so keenly that it never occurred
to him to suggest an alternative. She would not consent, would scorn him
for it. The only alternative, she appeared to believe, was death.

One evening--the last--when it was necessary for her to return to
Blackwood, and he had seen her off on the train, her face a study in
sadness, he rode out gloomily to Jackson Park where he had once seen a
beautiful lake in the moonlight. When he reached there the waters of the
lake were still suffused and tinged with lovely suggestions of lavender,
pink and silver, for this was near the twenty-first of June. The trees
to the east and west were dark. The sky showed a last blush of orange.
Odours were about--warm June fragrance. He thought now, as he walked
about the quiet paths where the sand and pebbles crunched lightly
beneath his feet, of all the glory of this wonderful week. How dramatic
was life; how full of romance. This love of Angela's, how beautiful.
Youth was with him--love. Would he go on to greater days of beauty or
would he stumble, idling his time, wasting his substance in riotous
living? Was this riotous living? Would there be evil fruition of his
deeds? Would he really love Angela after he married her? Would t