anger who wished
to remain a stranger. And she was evidently waiting for me to go. You will
see what a mood I was in when I say I felt as I had not since I, a very
small boy indeed, ran away from home; I came back through the chilly night
to take one last glimpse of the family that would soon be realizing how
foolishly and wickedly unappreciative they had been of such a treasure
as I; and when I saw them sitting about the big fire in the lamp-light,
heartlessly comfortable and unconcerned, it was all I could do to keep back
the tears of strong self-pity--and I never saw them again.

"I've seen Roebuck," said I to Anita, because I must say something, if I
was to stay on.

"Roebuck?" she inquired. Her tone reminded me that his name conveyed
nothing to her.

"He and I are in an enterprise together," I explained. "He is the one man
who could seriously cripple me."

"Oh," she said, and her indifference, forced though I thought it, wounded.

"Well," said I, "your mother was right."

She turned full toward me, and even in the dimness I saw her quick
sympathy--an impulsive flash instantly gone. But it had been there!

"I came in here," I went on, "to say that--Anita, it doesn't in the least
matter. No one in this world, no one and nothing, could hurt me except
through you. So long as I have _you_, they--the rest--all of them
together--can't touch me."

We were both silent for several minutes. Then she said, and her voice was
like the smooth surface of the river where the boiling rapids run deep:
"But you _haven't_ me--and never _shall_ have. I've told you
that. I warned you long ago. No doubt you will pretend, and people will
say, that I left you because you lost your money. But it won't be so."

I was beside her instantly, was looking into her face. "What do you mean?"
I asked, and I did not speak gently.

She gazed at me without flinching. "And I suppose," she said satirically,
"you wonder why I--why you are repellent to me. Haven't you learned that,
though I may have been made into a moral coward, I'm not a physical coward?
Don't bully and threaten. It's useless."

I put my hand strongly on her shoulder--taunts and jeers do not turn me
aside. "What did you mean?" I repeated.

"Take your hand off me," she commanded.

"What did you mean?" I repeated sternly. "Don't be afraid to answer."

She was very young--so the taunt stung her. "I was about to tell you," said
she, "when you began to make it impossible."

I