ll, Tillie," she said. "I'm afraid I've said exactly
what I shouldn't. I can only think that, no matter what is wrong, two
wonderful pieces of luck have come to you. Your husband--that is, Mr.
Schwitter--cares for you,--you admit that,--and you are going to have a
child."

Tillie's pale eyes filled.

"I used to be a good woman, Mrs. Howe," she said simply. "Now I'm not.
When I look in that glass at myself, and call myself what I am, I'd give
a good bit to be back on the Street again."

She found opportunity for a word with K. while Christine went ahead of
him out of the barn.

"I've been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Le Moyne." She lowered her
voice. "Joe Drummond's been coming out here pretty regular. Schwitter
says he's drinking a little. He don't like him loafing around here: he
sent him home last Sunday. What's come over the boy?"

"I'll talk to him."

"The barkeeper says he carries a revolver around, and talks wild. I
thought maybe Sidney Page could do something with him."

"I think he'd not like her to know. I'll do what I can."

K.'s face was thoughtful as he followed Christine to the road.

Christine was very silent, on the way back to the city. More than once
K. found her eyes fixed on him, and it puzzled him. Poor Christine was
only trying to fit him into the world she knew--a world whose men were
strong but seldom tender, who gave up their Sundays to golf, not to
visiting unhappy outcasts in the country. How masculine he was, and
yet how gentle! It gave her a choking feeling in her throat. She took
advantage of a steep bit of road to stop and stand a moment, her fingers
on his shabby gray sleeve.

It was late when they got home. Sidney was sitting on the low step,
waiting for them.

Wilson had come across at seven, impatient because he must see a case
that evening, and promising an early return. In the little hall he had
drawn her to him and kissed her, this time not on the lips, but on the
forehead and on each of her white eyelids.

"Little wife-to-be!" he had said, and was rather ashamed of his own
emotion. From across the Street, as he got into his car, he had waved
his hand to her.

Christine went to her room, and, with a long breath of content, K.
folded up his long length on the step below Sidney.

"Well, dear ministering angel," he said, "how goes the world?"

"Things have been happening, K."

He sat erect and looked at her. Perhaps because she had a woman's
instinct for making the