and she complained of the eternal, pervasive
fall of the forge hammer. "It will drive me mad," she declared almost
wildly. "I can't bear to think of its going on and on, year after year;
listening to it--" He heard her with sombre eyes. She had come to the
counting house, empty for the moment but for themselves, and stood with
her countenance shadowed by a frown. "If the hammer stops," he replied,
waving his hand largely, "all this, the Pennys, stop, too. I'm afraid
that sound of beating out iron will be always wrought through our lives.
You will get accustomed to it--"

Her expression grew petulant, resentful. "Do you mean that we couldn't,
perhaps, go to England, if--if I wanted?" He moved closer to her,
brushing the circumference of her skirt. "You asked me to hold you, to
keep you from the past; and I am going to do it. London is all that you
wish to forget; it must go completely out of your life ... never finger
you again." A faint dread that deepened almost to antagonism was
visible on her countenance. "I suppose to men talk like that seems a
sign of strength, of possession; but it doesn't impress women, really.
You see, women give, or else--there is nothing."

"I had no thought of impressing you," he said simply; "I only repeated
what came into my mind, what I mean. It would be a mistake for me to
take you to England, and make both of us miserable. Beside, there is
more to tend here than I'll ever accomplish." She objected, "But other
people, workmen, will do the actual labour. Surely you are not going to
keep on with anything so vulgar--" she indicated the office and desks.
Her features sharpened with contempt. "I'll not be a clerk," he told her
gravely. "But I am responsible for a great deal. You should understand
that for you showed it to me. Most of what I am now has been you." He
reached out his hands to her in a wave of tenderness, but she evaded
him. She stood irresolute for a moment and then abruptly turned and
disappeared.

A white rim of new moon grew visible at the edge of dusk, and he stood
gazing at it before he entered the dwelling. A dull unrest had become
part of his inner tumult, a premonition falling over him like an
advancing shadow. But above all his vague fears rose the knowledge that
he would never let Ludowika go from him; that was the root of his being.
Now she could never leave him. It was natural, he assured himself again,
that she should feel doubts at first; everything here was so di