ut suddenly she rose and stamped a foot as though to crush
them, and cried out, "I will have no ring at all! Neither one nor the
other!"

"You can't get married without a ring," he said stupidly. It pleased him
to see her thus: she was less distant from him.

"Very well. Marry me with one. I will not wear it afterwards."

"I don't care about that," he muttered. He was looking at her, peering
in the half-blind fashion he used towards her. "Helen--I was awake half
the night."

She stared at him. It would not have troubled her if he had never slept
again. It was absurd of him to think she cared whether he slept or
waked.

"Thinking of you--" he added, and seemed to wait for some reward.

"I am going in," was all she said.

"Not yet. That's all you ever say to me. I wish you'd have a ring."

"But I will not!"

"Something, then," he begged.

"What do such things matter?" she cried, and hated her ungraciousness as
she heard it. "If it will make you happy," she conceded. "Good-bye,
George. The doctor will soon be here, and there is everything to do."

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Oh, yes." She passed into the house and up the stairs, and she did not
look back to see if he had followed.

He found himself at a loss in the big house which seemed very empty.
There was not a sound in it but the ticking of the clock and, upstairs,
Helen's movements, which were few and quiet. He realized that he was
practically alone with her, and though he listened earnestly, he could
not tell exactly where she was, and at any moment she might come
slipping down the stairs before he knew she was at the head of them. The
fancy pleased him; it kept him poised for her; it would be fine, he
thought, to play at hide-and-seek with her, to search the old house
while she ran from him, to hear the clicking of a door or an unwary
step, and at last to catch her in his arms, in the dark of a winter
night.

He waited, but she did not come, and, understanding that his presence in
the hall might well keep her upstairs, he wandered into the kitchen.

The room was neat, but a pile of dirty plates and dishes awaited
washing, and having looked at them thoughtfully, he took off his coat,
and he was working in the scullery when Helen appeared. Already he had
filled the scuttles and the kettles.

"Thank you very much," she said, in a kind of wonder. He was a different
person now, and she was touched by the sight of this careful dealing
with mop