at I had made him believe in himself--and in--God. That
if he didn't have me in his life his future would be--dead. He begged and
begged me to let him take me into the little town and find some one to
marry us. He said that if we went back I would be lost to him--that--that
Brooks would get me--that was the way he put it, Uncle Rod. He said that
he was going blind; that I hadn't any heart; that he would love me as no
one else could; that he would write his books for me; that he would spend
his whole life making it up to me.

I don't know how I held out against him. But I did. Something in me
seemed to say that I must hold out. Some sense of dignity and of
self-respect, and at last I conquered.

"I will not marry you," I said; "don't speak of it again. I am going back
to Bower's. I am not a heroine of a melodrama, and there's no use to act
as if I had done an unpardonable thing. I haven't, and the Bowers won't
think it, and nobody else will know. But you have hurt me more than I can
tell by what you have done to-night. When you first came to Bower's there
were things about you that I didn't like, but--as I came to know you, I
thought I had found another man in you. The night at the Crossroads ball
you seemed like a big kind brother--and I told you what I had suffered,
and now you have made me suffer."

And then--oh, I don't quite know how to tell you. He dropped on his knees
at my feet and hid his face in my dress and cried--hard dry sobs--with
his hands clutching.

I just couldn't stand it, Uncle Rod, and presently I was saying, "Oh, you
poor boy, you poor boy----" and I think I smoothed his hair, and he
whispered, "Can't you?" and I said, "Oh, Geoffrey, I can't."

At last he got control of himself. He sat at a little distance from me
and told me what he was going to do.

"I think I was mad," he said. "I can't even ask your forgiveness, for I
don't deserve it. I am going up to town to telephone to Beulah, and when
I come back I will take you up the river where you can get the train. I
shall break the engine and leave it here, so that when Brinsley gets it
back there will be nothing to spoil our story."

He was gone half an hour. When he came he brought me a hat. He had bought
it at the one little store where he had telephoned, and he had bought one
for himself. I think we both laughed a little when we put them on,
although it wasn't a laughing matter, but we did look funny.

He unfastened the boat, and we turned