nately, but
only affectionately. The one step beyond affection, which leads into
another world, another life, he seemed determined not to pass.

For at least half an hour he sat there with David on his knee, or rising
up restlessly to pace the room with David on his shoulder; but apparently
not desiring the child's absence, rather wishing to keep him as a sort of
barrier. Against what?--himself? And so minute after minute slipped by;
and Miss Williams, sitting in her place by the window, already saw,
dotting the Links, group after group of the afternoon church-goers
wandering quietly home--so quietly, so happily, fathers and mothers and
children, companions and friends--for whom was no parting and no pain.

Mr. Roy suddenly took out his watch. "I must go now; I see I have spent
all but my last five minutes. Good-by, David, my lad; you'll be a big
man, maybe, when I see you again. Miss Williams" (standing before her
with an expression on his face such as she had never seen before),
"before I go there was a question I had determined to ask you--a purely
ethical question which a friend of mine has been putting to me, and I
could not answer; that is, I could from the man's side, the worldly side.
A woman might think differently."

"What is it?"

"Simply this. If a man has not a half-penny, ought he to ask a woman to
share it? Rather an Irish way of putting the matter," with a laugh, not
without bitterness, "but you understand. Ought he not to wait till he
has at least something to offer besides himself: Is it not mean,
selfish, cowardly, to bind a woman to all the chances or mischances of
his lot, instead of fighting it out alone like a man: My friend thinks
so, and I--I agree with him."

"Then why did you ask me."

The words, though low and clear, were cold and sharp--sharp with almost
unbearable pain. Every atom of pride in her was roused. Whether he loved
her and would not tell her so, or loved some other woman and wished her
know it, it was all the same. He was evidently determined to go away
free and leave her free; and perhaps many sensible men or women would say
he was right in so doing.

"I beg your pardon," he said, almost humbly. "I ought not to have spoken
of this at all. I ought just to have said 'Good-by,' and nothing more."
And he took her hand.

There was on it one ring, not very valuable, but she always liked to wear
it, as it had belonged to her mother. Robert Roy drew it off, and