and one day soon there'll be an explosion, and that will be the end.
We're up to our eyes in debt. I try to talk to father about it, but he
waves it away with his hand. They have, neither of them, the least
idea of money. You see, father doesn't need very much himself, except
for buying books. He had ten pounds last week--housekeeping money to
be given to me; he saw an edition of something that he wanted, and the
money was gone. We've been living on cabbages ever since. That's the
kind of thing that's always happening. I wanted to talk to him about
things this morning, but he said that he had an important engagement.
Now he's out on the moor somewhere flying his kite----"

She was leaning forward, her chin on her hand, staring out to sea.

"It takes the beans out of life, doesn't it?" she said, laughing. "You
must think me rather a poor thing for complaining like this, only it
does some good sometimes to get rid of it, and really at times I'm
frightened when I think of the end, the disgrace. If we are proclaimed
bankrupts it will kill mother. Father, of course, will soon get over
it."

"I say--I'm so sorry." Harry scarcely knew what to say. She was not
asking for sympathy; he saw precisely her position--that she was too
proud to ask for his help, but that she must speak. No, sympathy was
not what she wanted. He suddenly hated Bethel--the selfishness of it,
the hopeless egotism. It was, Harry decided, the fools and not the
villains who spoilt life.

"I want you to do me a favour," he said. "I want you to promise me
that, before the end actually comes, if it is going to come, you will
ask me to help you. I won't offer to do anything now--I will stand
aside until you want me; but you won't be proud if it comes to the
worst, will you? Do you promise? You see," he added, trying to laugh
lightly, "we are chums."

"Yes," she answered quietly, "I promise. Here's my hand on it."

As he took her hand in his it was all he could do to hold himself back.
A great wave of passion seized him, his body trembled from head to
foot, and he grew very white. He was crying, "I love you, I love you,
I love you," but he kept the words from his lips--he would not speak
yet.

"Thank you," was all that he said, and he stood up to hide his
agitation.

For a little they did not speak. They both felt that, in that moment,
they had touched on things that were too sacred for speech; he seemed
so strong, so splendid in he