some warrant for
the view that she had held of Gregory's character when he had fallen in
love with her. He was younger then. There must have been latent
possibilities in him, but the years of toil had killed them and hardened
him. It was for her sake he had made the struggle, and now it seemed
unthinkable that she should renounce him because he came to her with the
dust and stain of it upon him. For all that, she was possessed with a
feeling that she would involve them both in disaster if she yielded.
Something warned her that she must stand firm.

"Gregory," she said, "I seem to know that we should both be sorry
afterwards if I kept my promise."

Hawtrey straightened himself with a smile that she recognized. She had
liked him for it once, for it had then suggested the joyous courage of
untainted youth. Now, however, it struck her as merely hinting at empty,
complacent assurance. She hated herself for the fancy, but it would not
be driven away.

"Well," he replied, "I'm quite willing to face that hazard. I suppose
this diffidence is only natural, Aggy, but it's a little hard on me."

"No," replied the girl with emphasis, "it's horribly unnatural, and
that's why I'm afraid. I should have come to you gladly, without a
misgiving, feeling that nothing could hurt me if I was with you. I
wanted to do that, Gregory--I meant to--but I can't." Then her voice
fell to a tone that had vibrant regret in it. "You should have made
sure--you should have married me when you last came home."

"But I'd nowhere to take you. The farm was only half-broken prairie, the
homestead almost unhabitable."

Agatha winced at this. It was, no doubt, true, but it seemed horribly
petty and commonplace. His comprehension stopped at such details as
these, and he had given her no credit for the courage which would have
made light of bodily discomfort.

"Do you think that would have mattered? We were both very young then,
and we could have faced our troubles and grown up together. Now we're
not the same. You let me grow up alone."

Hawtrey shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't changed," he told her as she
looked at him with deep-seeing eyes.

He contented himself with that, and Agatha grew more resolute. There was
not a spark of imagination in him, scarcely even a spark of the passion
which, if it had been strong enough, might have swept her away in spite
of her shrinking. He was a man of comely presence, whimsical, and quick,
as she remembered, at