I'm not going to die
like--like a rat?"

For a moment, a swiftly passing moment, it was the old vital Steve who
spoke; the Babcock of a year ago; then, in quick recession, the mood
passed.

"You don't know what you're talking about, girl. I can't go, I tell
you. I haven't the money."

"I'll see that you have the money, Steve."

"You?"

"I've been teaching for eight years, and living at home all the
while."

The man, surprised out of his self centredness, looked wonderingly,
unbelievingly, at her.

"You never told me, Mollie."

"No, I never saw the need before."

The man's look of wonder passed. Another--fearful, dependent, the look
of a child in the dark--took its place.

"But--alone, Mollie! A strange land, a strange people, a strange
tongue! Oh, I hate myself, girl, hate myself! I've lost my nerve. I
can't go alone. I can't."

"You're not going alone, Steve." There was a triumphant note in her
voice that thrilled the man through and through. She continued:

"Only this morning--I don't know why I did it; it seems now like
Providence pointing the way--I read in the paper about the rich farm
lands in South Dakota that are open for settlement. I thought of you
at the time, Steve; how such a life might restore your health; but it
seemed so impossible, so impracticable, that I soon forgot about it.

"But--Steve--we can each take up a quarter-section--three hundred and
twenty acres, altogether. Think of it! We'll soon be rich. There you
will have just the sort of outdoor life the doctor says you need."

He looked at her, marvelling.

"Mollie--you don't mean it--now, when I'm--this way!" He arose, his
breath coming quick, a deep blot of red in the centre of each cheek.
"It can't be true when--when you'd never let me say anything before."

"Yes, Steve, it's true."

She was so calm, so self-possessed and withal so determined, that the
man was incredulous.

"That you'll marry me? Say it, Mollie!"

"Yes, I'll marry you."

"Mollie!" He took a step forward, then of a sudden, abruptly halted.

"But your parents," in swift trepidation. "Mollie, they--"

"Don't let's speak of them,"--sharply. Then in quick contrition, her
voice softened; once more it struck the maternal note.

"Pardon me, I'm very tired. Come. We have a spare room; you mustn't go
home to-night."

The man stopped, coughed, advanced a step, then stopped again.

"Mollie, I can't thank you; can't ever repay you--"

"You mustn't talk of