s. What was it that he wished you to tell me?"

"That you've got to sign another promissory note--for fifty thousand
this time."

"Is that all?"

Wrayford hesitated; then he said: "Yes--for the present."

She sat motionless, her head bent, her hand resting passively in his.

He leaned nearer. "What did you' mean just now, by worse things?"

She hesitated. "Haven't you noticed that he's been drinking a great deal
lately?"

"Yes; I've noticed."

They were both silent; then Wrayford broke out, with sudden vehemence:
"And yet you won't--"

"Won't?"

"Put an end to it. Good God! Save what's left of your life."

She made no answer, and in the stillness the throb of the water
underneath them sounded like the beat of a tormented heart.

"Isabel--" Wrayford murmured. He bent over to kiss her. "Isabel! I can't
stand it! listen--"

"No; no. I've thought of everything. There's the boy--the boy's fond of
him. He's not a bad father."

"Except in the trifling matter of ruining his son."

"And there's his poor old mother. He's a good son, at any rate; he'd
never hurt her. And I know her. If I left him, she'd never take a penny
of my money. What she has of her own is not enough to live on; and how
could he provide for her? If I put him out of doors, I should be putting
his mother out too."

"You could arrange that--there are always ways."

"Not for her! She's proud. And then she believes in him. Lots of people
believe in him, you know. It would kill her if she ever found out."

Wrayford made an impatient movement. "It will kill you if you stay with
him to prevent her finding out."

She laid her other hand on his. "Not while I have you."

"Have me? In this way?"

"In any way."

"My poor girl--poor child!"

"Unless you grow tired--unless your patience gives out."

He was silent, and she went on insistently: "Don't you suppose I've
thought of that too--foreseen it?"

"Well--and then?" he exclaimed.

"I've accepted that too."

He dropped her hands with a despairing gesture. "Then, indeed, I waste
my breath!"

She made no answer, and for a time they sat silent again, a little
between them. At length he asked: "You're not crying?"

"No."

"I can't see your face, it's grown so dark."

"Yes. The storm must be coming." She made a motion as if to rise.

He drew close and put his arm about her. "Don't leave me yet. You know I
must go to-morrow." He broke off with a laugh. "I'm to break the news
to you to