that he had succeeded in making her a prisoner, however slender the
thread by which he held her, he seemed intent upon filling in all the
past as fully as possible. Up to a certain point that was easy enough.
She was willing to talk of her girlhood; of her father, whom she adored;
and even of Aunt Kitty, who had claimed her young womanhood. She was
even eager. It afforded her a safe topic in which she found relief. It
gave her an opportunity also to justify, in a fashion, or at least to
explain, both to herself and Peter, the frame of mind that led her up to
later events.

"I ran away from you, Peter," she admitted.

"I know," he answered.

"Only it was not so much from you as from what you stood for," she
hurried on. "I was thinking of myself alone, and of the present alone.
I had been a prisoner so long, I wanted to be free a little."

"Free?" he broke in quickly, with a frown. "I don't like to hear you use
that word. That's the way Covington's wife talked, is n't it?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"It's the way so many women are talking to-day--and so many men, too.
Freedom is such a big word that a lot of people seem to think it will
cloak anything they care to do. They lose sight of the fact that the
freer a man or a woman is, the more responsibility he assumes. The free
are put upon their honor to fulfill the obligations that are exacted by
force from the irresponsible. So those who abuse this privilege are
doubly treacherous--treacherous to themselves, and treacherous to
society, which trusted them."

Marjory turned aside her head, so that he might not even look upon her
with his blind eyes.

"I--I didn't mean any harm, Peter," she said.

"Of course you did n't. I don't suppose Mrs. Covington did, either; did
she?"

"No, Peter, I'm sure she didn't. She--she was selfish."

"Besides, if you only come through safe, and learn--"

"At least, I've learned," she answered.

"Since you went away from me?"

"Yes."

"You have n't told me very much about that."

She caught her breath.

"Is--is it dishonest to keep to one's self how one learns?" she asked.

"No, little woman; only, I feel as though I'd like to know you as I know
myself. I'd like to feel that there was n't a nook or cranny in your
mind that was n't open to me."

"Peter!"

"Is that asking too much?"

"Some day you must know, but not now."

"If Mrs. Covington--"

"Must we talk any more about her?" she exclaimed.

"I did n