"And what am I?"

"Two poverties don't make a wealth, even of happiness," said Peter
steadily. "In the time to come, when you would think of what you might
have been, it would be a thousand deaths to me, dear."

"People have married, women have married and carried on their work, too,
Peter."

"Not your sort of women or your sort of work. And not my sort of man,
Harry. I'm jealous--jealous of every one about you. It would have to be
the music or me."

"And you make the choice!" said Harmony proudly. "Very well, Peter, I
shall do as you say. But I think it is a very curious sort of love."

"I wonder," Peter cried, "if you realize what love it is that loves you
enough to give you up."

"You have not asked me if I care, Peter."

Peter looked at her. She was very near to tears, very sad, very
beautiful.

"I'm afraid to ask," said Peter, and picking up his hat he made for the
door. There he turned, looked back, was lost.

"My sweetest heart!" he cried, and took her in his hungry arms. But even
then, with her arms about his neck at last, with her slender body held
to him, her head on his shoulder, his lips to her soft throat, Peter put
her from him as a starving man might put away food.

He held her off and looked at her.

"I'm a fool and a weakling," he said gravely. "I love you so much that I
would sacrifice you. You are very lovely, my girl, my girl! As long as I
live I shall carry your image in my heart."

Ah, what the little Georgiev had said on his way to the death that
waited down the staircase. Peter, not daring to look at her again, put
away her detaining hand, squared his shoulders, went to the door.

"Good-bye, Harmony," he said steadily. "Always in my heart!"

Very near the end now: the little Marie on the way to America, with
the recording angel opening a new page in life's ledger for her and
a red-ink line erasing the other; with Jimmy and his daddy wandering
through the heaven of friendly adventure and green fields, hand in hand;
with the carrier resting after its labors in the pigeon house by the
rose-fields of Sofia; with the sentry casting martial shadows through
the barred windows of the hospital; and the little Georgiev, about to
die, dividing his heart, as a heritage, between his country and a young
girl.

Very near the end, with the morning light of the next day shining into
the salon of Maria Theresa and on to Peter's open trunk and shabby
wardrobe spread over chairs. An end of trun