harm in the past he would now spare Maggie and
his father. He was surprised at the rush of tenderness that came over
him at the thought of Maggie; he sat there for some time thinking over
every incident of the last three weeks; that, at least, had been a good
decent time, and no one could ever take it away from them again. He
looked at her picture in the locket and realised, as he looked at it, a
link with her that he had never felt with any woman before. "All the
same," he thought, "I should go away. She'd mind it at first, but not
half as much as she'd mind me later on when she saw what kind of a chap
I really was. She'd be unhappy for a bit, but she'd soon meet some one
else. She's never seen a man yet except me. She'd soon forget me. She's
such a kid."

Nevertheless when he thought of beginning that old wandering life again
he shrank back. He had hated it--Oh! how he'd hated it! And he didn't
want to leave Maggie. He was in reality beginning to believe that with
her he might pull himself right out of this morass of weakness and
indecision in which he had been wallowing for years. And yet what sort
of a life could he offer her? He did not believe that he would ever now
be able to find this other woman whom he had married, and until he had
found her and divorced her Maggie's position would be impossible. She,
knowing nothing of the world, could disregard it, but HE knew, knew
that daily, hourly recurrence of alights and insults and
disappointments, knew what that life could make after a time of women
in such a position; even though she did not mind he would mind for her
and would reproach himself continually.

No, it was impossible. He must go away secretly, without telling her
... Then, at that, he was pulled up again by the thought of his father.
He could not leave him until this crisis, whatever it might be, was
over. A very little thing now might kill him, and at the thought of
that possibility he jumped up from his bed and swore that THAT
catastrophe at least must be prevented. His father must live and be
happy and strong again, and he, Martin, must see to it.

That was his charge and his sacred duty above all else.

Strong in this thought he went down to his father's room. He knocked on
the door. There was no answer, and he went in. The room was in a mess
of untidiness. His father was walking up and down, staring in front of
him, talking to himself.

At the sound of the door he turned, saw Martin and smile