winsome beyond
words, and I knew I had but to say it and she would come to me. Yet I
checked myself. I retreated behind a barrier of reserve. "Play the
game," I said; "play the game."

So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness.
Always she had that anxious, wistful look. Once came a sound from the
kitchen like stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry.
Then the time came when I was well enough to get up, to go away.

I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She
was there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting.

"Berna," I called.

She came, with a smile lighting up her face.

"I'm going."

The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind
it was a lurking fear.

"You're going?" she faltered.

"Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going."

She did not speak.

"Are you ready?" I went on.

"Ready?"

"Yes, you're going, too."

"Where?"

I took her suddenly in my arms.

"Why, you dear little angel, to get married, of course. Come on, Berna,
we'll find the nearest parson. We won't lose any more precious time."

Then a great rush of tears came into her eyes. But still she hung back.
She shook her head.

"Why, Berna, what's the matter? Won't you come?"

"I think not."

"In Heaven's name, what is wrong, dear? Don't you love me?"

"Yes, I love you. It's because I love you I won't come."

"Won't you marry me?"

"No, no, I can't. You know what I said before. I haven't changed any.
I'm still the same--dishonoured girl. You could never give me your
name."

"You're as pure as the driven snow, little one."

"No one thinks so but you, and it's that that makes all the difference.
Everybody knows. No, I could never marry you, never take your name,
never bind you to me."

"Well, what's to be done?"

"You must go away, or--stay."

"Stay?"

"Yes. You've been living alone with me for a month. I picked you up that
night in the dance-hall. I had you brought here. I nursed you. Do you
think people don't give us credit for the worst? We are as innocent as
children, yet do you think I have a shred of reputation left? Already I
am supposed to be your mistress. Everybody knows; nobody cares. There
are so many living that way here. If you told them we were innocent they
would scoff at us. If you go they will say you have discarded me."

"What shall I do?"

"Just stay. Oh, why can't we go on as we've been doing? It's been so
like