kie! I can't!" she wailed softly.

"Come!" said Frank, and took her by the arm once more.

Five minutes later they stood together half-way down a certain long lane
that turns out of Chiswick High Street to the left, and there, for the
first time, she seems to have been genuinely frightened. The street was
quite empty; the entire walking population was parading up and down the
brightly-lit thoroughfare a hundred yards behind them, or feverishly
engaged in various kinds of provision shops. The lamps were sparse in
this lane, and all was comparatively quiet.

"Oh, Frankie!" she moaned again. "I can't! I can't!... I daren't!"

She leaned back against the sill of a window.

Yet, even then, I believe she was rather enjoying herself. It was all so
extremely like the sort of plays over which she had been accustomed to
shed tears. The Prodigal's Return! And on Christmas Eve! It only
required a little snow to be falling and a crying infant at her
breast....

I wonder what Frank made of it. He must have known Gertie thoroughly
well by now, and certainly there is not one sensible man in a thousand
whose gorge would not have risen at the situation. Yet I doubt whether
Frank paid it much attention.

"Where's the house?" he said.

He glanced up at the number of the door by which he stood.

"It must be a dozen doors further on," he said.

"It's the last house in the row," murmured Gertie, in a weak voice. "Is
father looking out? Go and see."

"My dear girl," said Frank, "do not be silly. Do remember your mother's
letter."

Then she suddenly turned on him, and if ever she was genuine she was in
that moment.

"Frankie," she whispered, "why not take me away yourself? Oh! take me
away! take me away!"

He looked into her eyes for an instant, and in that instant he caught
again that glimpse as of Jenny herself.

"Take me away--I'll live with you just as you like!" She took him by his
poor old jacket-lapel. "You can easily make enough, and I don't ask--"

Then he detached her fingers and took her gently by the arm.

"Come with me," he said. "No; not another word."

Together in silence they went the few steps that separated them from the
house. There was a little garden in front, its borders set alternately
with sea-shells and flints. At the gate she hesitated once more, but he
unlatched the gate and pushed her gently through.

"Oh! my gloves!" whispered Gertie, in a sharp tone of consternation. "I
left them in the shop