hink of it. It's bad enough as it is."

"What's bad enough?"

"Everything, my child. I'm bad enough, if you like; but I'm not as bad as
all that, I can assure you."

"You don't think _me_ bad?"

"You know I don't. You know what I think of you. But you must learn to
see what's possible and what isn't."

"I do see. Tell me one thing. Is it because you love _her_?"

"We can't go into that, Maggie. Can't you understand that it may be
because I love _you_?"

"I don't know. But I don't mind so long as I know it isn't only because
you love _her_."

"You're not to talk about her, Maggie."

"I know. I won't. I don't want to talk about her, I'm sure. I try not to
think about her more than I can help."

"But you must think of her."

"Oh--must I?"

"At any rate, you must think of me."

"I do think of you. I think of you from morning till night. I don't think
of anything else. I don't want anything else. I'm contented as long as
I've got you. It wasn't that."

"What was it, Maggie?"

"Nothing. Only--it's so awfully lonely in between, when you're not here.
That was why I asked you."

"Poor child, poor Maggie. Is it very bad to bear?"

"Not when I know you're coming."

"See here--if it gets too bad to bear, we must end it."

"End it?"

"Yes, Maggie. _You_ must end it; you must give me up, when you're
tired--"

"Oh no--no," she cried.

"Give me up," he repeated, "and go back to town."

"To Scale?"

"Well, yes; if it's so lonely here."

"And give you up?"

"Yes, Maggie, you must; if you go back to Scale."

"I shall never go back. Who could I go to? There's nobody who'd 'ave me.
I've got nobody."

"Nobody?"

"Nobody but you, Wallie. Nobody but you. Have you never thought of that?
Why, where should _I_ be if I was to give you up?"

"I see, Maggie. _I_ see. _I_ see."

Up till then he had seen nothing. But Maggie, unwise, had put her hand
through the fine web of illusion. She had seen, and made him see, the
tragedy of the truth behind it, the real nature of the tie that bound
them. It was an inconsistent tie, permanent in its impermanence, with all
its incompleteness terribly complete. He could not give her up; he had
not thought of giving her up; but neither had he thought of keeping her.

It was all wrong. It was wrong to keep her. It would be wrong to give her
up. He was all she had. Whatever happened he could not give her up.

And so he said, "_I_ see. _I_ see."

"See here," said she (she