u are not mine. You are your own."

Convulsively she clung to him moaning, "No, no, Barney!"

"It is the only way."

"No, not to-night, Barney!"

"Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. Trent has got me an
appointment in Johns Hopkins. You will never forget me, but your life
will be full again of other people and other things." He hurried his
words, seeking to strike the note of her ambition and so turn her mind
from her present pain. "Your Philharmonic will bring you fame. That
means engagements, great masters, and then you will belong to the great
world." How clearly he had read her mind and how closely he had followed
the path she herself had outlined for her feet! He paused, as if to take
breath, then hurried on again as through a task. "And we
will all be proud of you and rejoice in your success and in
your--your--your--happiness." The voice that had gone so bravely and so
relentlessly through the terrible lesson faltered at the word and broke,
but only for an instant. He must think of her. "Dick will be here," he
went on, "and Margaret, and soon you will have many friends. Believe me,
it is the best, Iola, and you will say it some day."

Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, "No, Barney, you are
not helping me to my best."

In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For a moment he had no
answer. Eagerly she followed up her advantage.

"And who," she cried, "will help me up and take care of me?"

Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would care for her, guard her
against the world with its beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon
beauty and innocence? And who would help her against herself? The desire
to hold her for himself and for her sprang up fierce within him. Could
he desert her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way
through the world's treacherous paths alone? That was the part of his
renunciation that had been the heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her
danger. Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he forgot everything.
All the great love in him gathered itself together and massed its weight
behind this desire to protect her and to hold her safe.

"Could you, Iola," he cried hoarsely, "don't you think you could let me
care for you? Couldn't you come to me, give me the right to guard you? I
can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you come?"

Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of great passion, he
poured forth his soul's desire for her. To