lord, so
let it be.'"

"But think a moment, girl; if one has done wrong, there must be
atonement. That is the higher law--the highest law--and no man may
evade it. Do you know what that would mean for me?"

"It is the Price, boy, dear; I don't ask you to pay it. Listen: my
father and I have agreed to disagree, and he has turned over to me a lot
of money that he took from--that was once my mother's brother's share in
the Colorado gold claims. What is mine is yours. We can pay back the
money. Will that do?"

He was shaking his head slowly. "No," he said, "I think it wouldn't do."

"I was afraid it wouldn't," she sighed, "but I had to try. Are they
still gnashing their teeth at you?--the dreadful things, I mean?"

He did not answer in words, but she knew, and held her peace. At the end
of the ends he sprang up suddenly and drew her to her feet.

"I can't do it, Margery, girl! I can't ask you to wait--and afterward to
marry a convict! Think of it--even if Galbraith were willing to
withdraw, the law wouldn't let him, and I'd get the limit; anything from
seven years to fifteen or more. Oh, my God, no! I can't pay the price! I
can't give you up!"

She put her arms around his neck and drew his head down and kissed him
on the lips. "I'll wait ... oh, boy, boy! I'll wait! But I can neither
push you over the edge nor hold you back. Only don't think of me;
please, _please_ don't think of me!--'Whatsoever seemeth good'--that is
what you must think of; that is my last word: 'Whatsoever seemeth
good.'" And she pushed him from her and fled.

XLI

THE DESERT AND THE SOWN

Through streets in which the village quiet of the summer night was
undisturbed save by the spattering tinkle of the lawn sprinklers in the
front yards, and the low voices of the out-door people taking the air
and the moonlight on the porches, Griswold fared homeward, the blood
pounding in his veins and the fine wine of life mounting headily to his
brain.

After all the dubious stumblings he had come to the end of the road, to
find awaiting him the great accusation and the great reward. By the
unanswerable logic of results, in its effect upon others and upon
himself, his deed had proved itself a crime. Right or wrong in the
highest of the ethical fields, the accepted social order had proved
itself strong enough to make its own laws and to prescribe the
far-reaching penalties for their infraction. Under these laws he stood
convicted. Never again, s