me," she suggested. "No," she
hastened to continue, "you have none. You have shown it all along. But
why should I ask you to have confidence? We met by accident at a
farm-house, during a holiday, at a time when real friendships are rarely
formed. Impressed by the ephemeral season, we recognize that we too are
but fleeting, with changing likes and dislikes, the prejudices and
predilections of an hour. Of course, my affection for Gunhild is
lasting. Her interests and mine walk far down the road together, hand in
hand. I could not expect you to see this; you saw her and all else stood
about her in a dim radius. I was a shadow, dim or dark, as the day was
light or heavy, the same as Mrs. Blakemore. My station entitled me to
respect, and you gave it. But you did not feel that my love for the
young woman entitled me to something closer than respect. You are no
common man, Mr. Milford. Your face is a Vandyke conception of a spirit
of adventure. You are a strength repenting a weakness; there are flaws
in you, and yet I could wish that I were the mother of such a son."

"Don't," said Milford, touching her hand; "please don't. I honor you; I
could get down on my knees to you. You're not a shadow. There is nothing
in a shadow that makes a man bow his head in reverence. But I can't tell
you."

"Is it so very bad, Mr. Milford?"

"Yes, it is worse than very bad."

He moved further from her, and looked at her as if he expected her to
move also, but she did not. "There is redemption," she said; "moral
redemption."

"There must be a material redemption," he replied.

"God demands that it must be spiritual," she said.

"But man insists that it must be earthly," he persisted.

"The gospel was tenderest coming from the mouth of one who had been
infamous."

"Yes," he replied, "but then the blood of the Virgin's Son was still red
upon the earth, and in the heart of the changing world that blood atoned
for everything. It is different now. Man may forgive, but he wants the
dollar."

"And he's goin' to get it unless you tie his hands behind him," said
Mrs. Stuvic, stepping into the room. "Yes, you bet! Why don't you have
that girl play the pian, Mrs.--I can't recollect your name to save my
life."

"She didn't bring her music," Mrs. Goodwin replied, and the old woman
"whiffed." "Music the cat's foot! Don't she know a tune? Tell her to
give me a jig and I'll dance it."

"She won't play, Mrs. Stuvic. It's of no use to ask her."