long, now. You ride on and I will
overtake you. I--I must see Mr. Carmody alone."

"_Mr._ Carmody! So you two have had a scrap! Well, if I was a girl, and
Bill Carmody wanted to marry _me_, you bet, I'd marry him before he got
a chance to change his mind. You bet, when I grow up I'm going to be
just like him--so there!"

The boy flounced defiantly out of the room, leaving the girl alone with
a new fear.

Since the death of her parents she had bravely and capably undertaken
the management of the household, and her chief care was this impulsive
boy who was so dear to her heart.

"Look after Charlie as long as he shall need you." The words of her
dying mother came to her vividly. "He is really a noble little
fellow--but hard to manage."

And now, added to the sorrow that already seemed crushing her, was this
new anxiety.

Charlie had set up an idol--and the fact that his idol was also her
idol--although she never admitted it--struck fear to her heart. For the
undiscerning eyes of the boy were blind to the feet of clay.

In the library across the hall, William Carmody paced nervously up and
down, pausing at each turn to gaze abstractedly out of the window.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the portieres parted and the
girl stepped into the room. In her hand she carried a carefully folded
newspaper. She crossed to the table and, regarding the man with a cold,
disconcerting stare, waited for him to speak.

"Hello, Ethel! No, thank you, I have had luncheon. I----" His gaze
encountered the unwavering blue eyes, and he suddenly dropped the air
of flippant assurance. "Er, I came to see you," he added lamely.

"Yes?" There was little of encouragement in the word with its
accompanying inflection.

"You see, I am leaving New York."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, I am going away." He paused, but receiving no answer, continued,
"I am going away to--to make good. And I came to say good-by. When I
return, if--if you are still free, I will have something to tell
you--something I have often told you before, but--well, things will be
different, then."

"I suppose you said good-by to your _other_ friends last night?" Her
glance rested for a moment on the folded newspaper, and the silky sneer
of her retort was brutal--with the studied brutality of the female of
the species who would inflict pain. The man winced under its sting.

"Last night cannot be recalled," he replied gravely. "Whatever happened
then is past and gone. You a