for his
train. He was playing on the library floor with Davy Junior when an
automobile came to a panting stop before the house. A minute later
came Shirley's voice from the hall, "_Da_-vy!" The little fellow
scrambled to his feet and ran to meet her at the door. She caught him
and swung him strongly in her arms, hugging and kissing him. And David
saw that the months had been kind to Shirley. The marks of worry and
discontent had been erased, her eyes danced and her cheeks glowed with
health and pleasure. Oh, a very fair picture was Shirley, in the full
flower of her loveliness.

But his heart went not one beat faster for her.

Then she saw him and set the child down. "David!" And she ran to him
and kissed him--very prettily, as a loving wife should.

"And now," said Aunt Clara, "I will say good-by to David and leave you
alone to the last minute. The car will be waiting for you when you're
ready." She held up her cheek to David and left them.

Shirley gasped. "You're not going to-night?"

"In a few minutes. I must."

"But--but this is ridiculous. Surely you can stay overnight at least."

"No. I promised to be back to-morrow morning. My time isn't my own."
Which was not quite fair to Jonathan in its implication.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"I didn't think of it until this morning when I got here and saw you
going out. I supposed I should find you."

"Surely you're not piqued because I-- David, what is it?" A look of
dread came into the dancing eyes. "You're looking wretchedly. You're
not going to tell me we've had some more bad luck?"

"I hope," he said quietly, "you won't call it that I came to ask you to
go back--home."

"Why, I--"

It was no glad eager light that took the place of dread. It was
consternation, a manifest, involuntary shrinking from what he
asked. . . . Then she was in like case with him. He had not counted
on that.

He felt his heart turning hard and cold; and that was not the way of
the gentleness he had planned. He, too, had shrunk from what he asked;
yet he had not hesitated to ask it, thinking to save her from some
hurt. She, without the key, thought only of the loss of her good
times. He could tell her the whole truth and she would not care--if it
led to good times. Couldn't she see, couldn't she _feel_, the tragedy
in this end of their once pretty romance? Since she could not, why try
to save her from a hurt she would never really