effort to recover himself, to resist what might be
coming, he struggled as one for breath, but from him came no word, no
sound.

Infinite pity for Selwyn made it impossible for me to speak for a
moment, and before words would come Mrs. Mundy and Kitty had gone out
of the room and Selwyn had turned to Etta.

With shoulders again drawn back, and eyes dark with fear and
defiance, she looked at him. "Why have you come here?" she asked.
"What are you going to do? You've taken him home and left me to go
back to where he drove me. Isn't that enough? Why have you brought
him here?"

"To ask Miss Heath to say what he must do. That is why I have come."
Pushing the trembling girl in a chair behind Harrie's, Selwyn looked
up at me. "You must decide what is to be done, Dandridge. This is a
matter beyond a man's judgment. I do not seem able to think clearly.
You must tell me what to do."

"I? Oh no! It is not for me. Surely you cannot mean that I must
tell you--" The blood in my body surged thickly, and I drew back,
appalled that such decision should be laid upon me, such
responsibility be mine. "What is it you want--of me?"

"To tell me--what Harrie must do." In Selwyn's face was the
whiteness of death, but his voice was quiet. "I did not know, until
David Guard told me, that there was a child, and that Harrie was its
father, and that because of the child Etta would not go away as I had
tried to make her. I did not know she had no father or brother to
see that, as far as possible, her wrong is righted. I want you to
forget that Harrie is my brother and remember the girl, and tell
me--what he must do."

From the chair in which Harrie sat came a lurching movement, and I
saw his body bend forward, saw his elbows on his knees, his face
buried in his hands, and then I heard a sudden sob, a soft, little
cry that stabbed, and Etta was on the floor beside him, crouching at
his feet, holding his hands to her heart, and uttering broken,
foolish words and begging him to speak to her, to tell her that he
would marry her--that he would marry her and take her away.

"Harrie--oh, Harrie!" Faintly we could hear the words that came
stumblingly. "Could we be married, Harrie, and go away, oh, far
away, where nobody knows? I will work for you--live for you--die for
you, if need be, Harrie! We could be happy. I would try--oh, I
would try so hard to make you happy, and the baby would have a name.
You would not hate her if