d so you--Did you
think I would consent? To live upon your charity?"

"There is no charity about it."

"There is. You know there is. And you believed that I--knowing what I
know--that my father--my own father--"

"Hush! hush! That is all past and done with."

"It may be for you, but not for me. Mr. Knowles, your opinion of me
must be a very poor one. Or your desire to please your aunt as great as
your--your charity to me. I thank you both, but I shall stay here. You
must go and you must not try to see me again."

There was firmness enough in this speech; altogether too much. But I was
as firm as she was.

"I shall not go," I reiterated. "I shall not leave you--in a place like
this. It isn't a fit place for you to be in. You know it is not. Good
heavens! you MUST know it?"

"I know what the place is," she said quietly.

"You know! And yet you stay here! Why? You can't like it!"

It was a foolish speech, and I blurted it without thought. She did not
answer. Instead she began to walk toward the corner. I followed her.

"I beg your pardon," I stammered, contritely. "I did not mean that, of
course. But I cannot think of your singing night after night in such a
place--before those men and women. It isn't right; it isn't--you shall
not do it."

She answered without halting in her walk.

"I shall do it," she said. "They pay me well, very well, and I--I need
the money. When I have earned and saved what I need I shall give it up,
of course. As for liking the work--Like it! Oh, how can you!"

"I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I ought to be shot for saying that. I
know you can't like it. But you must not stay here. You must come with
me."

"No, Mr. Knowles, I am not coming with you. And you must leave me and
never come back. My sole reason for seeing you to-night was to tell you
that. But--" she hesitated and then said, with quiet emphasis, "you may
tell my aunt not to worry about me. In spite of my singing in a cafe
chantant I shall keep my self-respect. I shall not be--like those
others. And when I have paid my debt--I can't pay my father's; I wish I
could--I shall send you the money. When I do that you will know that
I have resigned my present position and am trying to find a more
respectable one. Good-by."

We had reached the corner. Beyond was the square, with its lights and
its crowds of people and vehicles. I seized her arm.

"It shall not be good-by," I cried, desperately. "I shall not let you
go."

"Yo