ith
cowardice in running away from Peter and Jimmy when they needed her, and
in going back like a thief the night before. The conviction that the boy
was not so well brought with it additional introspection--her sacrifice
seemed useless, almost childish. She had fled because two men thought
it necessary, in order to save her reputation, to marry her; and she
did not wish to marry. Marriage was fatal to the career she had promised
herself, had been promised. But this career, for which she had given up
everything else--would she find it in the workroom of a dressmaker?

Ah, but there was more to it than that. Suppose--how her cheeks burned
when she thought of it!--suppose she had taken Peter at his word and
married him? What about Peter's career? Was there any way by which
Peter's poverty for one would be comfort for two? Was there any
reason why Peter, with his splendid ability, should settle down to the
hack-work of general practice, the very slough out of which he had so
painfully climbed?

Either of two things--go back to Peter, but not to marry him, or stay
where she was. How she longed to go back only Harmony knew. There in
the little room, with only the pigeons to see, she held out her arms
longingly. "Peter!" she said. "Peter, dear!"

She decided, of course, to stay where she was, a burden to no one.
The instinct of the young girl to preserve her good name at any cost
outweighed the vision of Peter at the window, haggard and tired, looking
out. It was Harmony's chance, perhaps, to do a big thing; to prove
herself bigger than her fears, stronger than convention. But she was
young, bewildered, afraid. And there was this element, stronger than
any of the others--Peter had never told her he loved her. To go back,
throwing herself again on his mercy, was unthinkable. On his love--that
was different. But what if he did not love her? He had been good to her;
but then Peter was good to every one.

There was something else. If the boy was worse what about his mother?
Whatever she was or had been, she was his mother. Suppose he were to die
and his mother not see him? Harmony's sense of fairness rebelled. In the
small community at home mother was sacred, her claims insistent.

It was very early, hardly more than dawn. The pigeons cooed on the sill;
over the ridge of the church roof, across, a luminous strip foretold the
sun. An oxcart, laden with vegetables for the market, lumbered along the
streets. Puzzled and unhappy