our lease
of the rectory expires, you will sail for America."

"I don't know."

"But you must know," with a momentary impatience. "Surely you don't
intend to remain here in Paris."

"I don't know that, either. I haven't considered what I shall do. It
depends--that is--"

I did not finish the sentence. I had said more than I intended and it
was high time I stopped. But I had said too much, as it was. She asked
more questions.

"Upon what does it depend?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. I did not mean that it depended upon anything in
particular. I--"

"You must have meant something. Tell me--answer me truthfully, please:
Does it depend upon me?"

Of course that was just what it did depend upon. And suddenly I
determined to tell her so.

"Frances," I demanded, "are you still there--at that place?"

"At L'Abbaye. Yes."

"You sing there every night?"

"Yes."

"Why do you do it? You know--"

"I know everything. But you know, too. I told you I sang there because
I must earn my living in some way and that seems to be the only place
where I can earn it. They pay me well there, and the people--the
proprietors--are considerate and kind, in their way."

"But it isn't a fit place for you. And you don't like it; I know you
don't."

"No," quietly. "I don't like it."

"Then don't do it. Give it up."

"If I give it up what shall I do?"

"You know. Come back with us and live with us as you did before. I want
you; Hephzy is crazy to have you. We--she has missed you dreadfully. She
grieves for you and worries about you. We offer you a home and--"

She interrupted. "Please don't," she said. "I have told you that that is
impossible. It is. I shall never go back to Mayberry."

"But why? Your aunt--"

"Don't! My aunt is very kind--she has been so kind that I cannot bear to
speak of her. Her kindness and--and yours are the few pleasant memories
that I have--of this last dreadful year. To please you both I would do
anything--anything--except--"

"Don't make any exceptions. Come with us. If not to Mayberry, then
somewhere else. Come to America with us."

"No."

"Frances--"

"Don't! My mind is made up. Please don't speak of that again."

Again I realized the finality in her tone. The same finality was in mine
as I answered.

"Then I shall stay here," I declared. "I shall not leave you alone,
without friends or a protector of any kind, to sing night after night in
that place. I shall not do it. I shall stay here