pity might still endure all
things. By the time she had been married two months her pity for him
was an overwhelming ache. He pretended penitence to win it: he had no
need to pretend....

At last he had no money. Everything portable he had sold, including some
of her clothes. His drink hunger was tearing him. She was going about
the room with big, mournful eyes and white face, making a meal for him.
He had scarcely eaten for the whole fortnight; she did not understand
that he was too poisoned to eat; she tried to persuade him to take food
until he was irritated beyond endurance and threw it on the floor. As
she passed him, quiet footed, he noticed her purse in the pocket of the
big cooking apron Mrs. King had lent her.

"Dearie," he said presently, "leave that silly mess and come here to
me."

She came immediately, and sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders
drooping.

"Your little Louis's so sorry," he whispered.

"Are you really sorry, Louis? Not like you were last time?" she asked,
suddenly hoping all things again on the slightest provocation.

"My darling, I'm heartbroken to think of the way I've treated you," he
said. "I think I'd better throw myself in the harbour."

He took her hand in his and held it shakily. Her loose sleeve slipped
up; on the white arm he saw blue marks of fingers; this jerked him a
little. He had not known he had got to that yet. Suddenly he kissed them
and began to cry.

"When did I do that?"

"What?" she said guilelessly.

"Your arm--"

"Oh, that!" she said, flushing. "That's nothing. I don't know how I did
it. Mrs. King's mangle, I think it was. It's ugly. I don't like you to
see ugly things." She drew the sleeve down tight.

"My poor little brave darling," he whispered, drawing her closer, trying
to make her hide her face on his shoulder as he measured the distance
between his hand that was round her waist and the apron pocket. He saw
that it was hopeless.

"Marcella--when your father was ill, did he pray?"

"Yes. All the time."

"I wish I could," he murmured.

"Why not, if you want to? Wanting to pray is a prayer, really."

"I don't feel fit to, Marcella. Do you think you could pray for me,
girlie?" he said, looking past her at the wall.

"I--I don't think I could--out loud. I'd feel as if I were
eavesdropping. But I can in my mind, if you like."

"Let's kneel down, then, like we did in the funny little tin tabernacle
when we were married," he said, and with