n't reasonable!"

"Because I think he needs me most. Just picture it, Kitty. He's got
nothing left to look forward to till he dies! Nothing! . . . Oh, I
can't add to what he'll have to bear! He's so helpless!"

"You'll have plenty to bear yourself--tied to a helpless man of Roger's
temper," retorted "Kitty.

"Yes"--soberly--"I think--I'm prepared for that."

"Prepared?"

"Yes. It seems to me as though I've known all afternoon that this was
coming--that Roger might be crippled beyond curing. And I've looked at
it from every angle, so as to be quite sure of myself." She paused.
"I'm quite sure, now."

The quiet resolution in her voice convinced Kitty that her mind was
made up. Nevertheless, for nearly an hour she tried by every argument
in her power, by every entreaty, to shake her decision. But Nan held
her ground.

"I must do it," she said. "It's useless trying to dissuade me. It's
so clear to me that it's the one thing I must do. Don't any anything
more about it, Kitten. You're only wearing yourself out"--appealingly.
"I wish--I wish you'd try to _help_ me to do it! It won't be the
easiest thing in the world"--with a brief smile that was infinitely
more sad than tears--"I know that."

"Help you?" cried Kitty passionately. "Help you to ruin your life, and
Peter's with it? No, I won't help you. I tell you, Nan, you can't do
this thing! You _shall not_ marry Roger Trenby!"

Nan listened to her patiently. Then, still very quietly:

"I must marry him," she said. "It will be the one decent thing I've
ever done in my life."

CHAPTER XXXVI

ROGER'S REFUSAL

The next morning at breakfast only one letter lay beside Nan's plate.
As she recognised Maryon Rooke's small, squarish handwriting, with its
curious contrasts of heavy downstrokes and very light terminals, the
colour deepened in her cheeks. Her slight confusion passed unnoticed,
however, as everyone else was absorbed in his or her individual share
of the morning's mail.

For a moment Nan hesitated, conscious of an intense disinclination to
open the letter. It gave her a queer feeling of panic, recalling with
poignant vividness the day when she and Maryon had last been together.
At length, somewhat dreading what it might contain, she opened it and
began to read.

"I've had a blazing letter from young Sandy McBain, which has increased
my respect for him enormously," wrote Maryon. "I've come to the
conclusion that I deserve