sire, he
knew, sprang from his loneliness and from his need of giving sympathy
to some one outside of himself. The illusion that surrounded her bore
no resemblance to the illusion of love--yet it was akin to it in the
swiftness and the completeness with which it was born. If any one had
told him an hour ago that he was on the verge of marriage to Judy, he
would have scoffed at the idea--he who was the heartbroken lover of
Molly! Yet this sudden protecting pity was so strong that he found
himself playing with the thought of marriage, as one plays in lofty
moments with the idea of a not altogether unpleasant self-abnegation.
He did not love Judy, but he was conscious of an overwhelming desire to
make Judy happy--and like all desires which are conceived in a fog of
uncertainty, its ultimate form depended less upon himself than it did
upon the outward pressure of circumstances.

"I sometimes think it's more than anybody can stand to go on living as
I do," said Judy, breaking the silence, "to slave an' slave an' never to
get so much as a word of thanks for it."

For a moment he said nothing. Then turning he looked hard into her humid
eyes, and what he saw there made him bend over and take her hand.

"Do you think I could make you happier, Judy?" he asked.

BOOK SECOND

THE CROSS-ROADS

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH YOUTH SHOWS A LITTLE SEASONED

Some six months after Abel's parting from Molly, he might have been seen
crossing the lawn at Jordan's Journey on a windy November morning, and
even to a superficial observer it would have been evident that certain
subtle modifications had been at work in his soul. Disappointed love had
achieved this result with a thoroughness which victorious love could
not have surpassed. Because he had lost Molly, he had resolved, in his
returning sanity, that he would make of himself the man who might have
won Molly had she known him in his completeness. And in the act of
resolving, his character had begun to ripen into the mellowness of
maturity.

The day was bleak, and something of this external bleakness was
reflected in the look which he raised to the ivy draped dormer-windows
in the hooded roof. Small greyish clouds were scudding low above the
western horizon, and the sorrel waste of broomsedge was rolling high as
a sea. The birds, as they skimmed over this billowy expanse, appeared
blown, despite their efforts, on the wind that swept in gusts out of
the west. On the lawn at