But listen! What for those that grow as flowers, tall,
beautiful, there among the grass that is cut down--should they
perish from the earth? For what were such as they made, tall and
beautiful?--poppies, mystic, drug-like, delirium producing? Is
that it--is that your purpose in life, then, after all? You--what
you see in your mirror there--is it the purpose of _that_ being--so
beautiful, so beautiful--to waste itself, all through life, over
some vague and abstract thing out of which no good can come? Is
that all? My God! Much as I love you, I'd rather see you marry
some other man than think of you never married at all. God never
meant a flower such as you to wither, to die, to be _wasted_. Why,
look at you! Look . . . at . . . you! And you say you are to be
wasted! God never meant it so, you beauty, you wonderful woman!"

Even as she was about to speak, drawn by the passion of him, the
agony of his cry, there came to the ears of both an arresting
sound--one which it seemed to Josephine was not wholly strange to
her ears. It was like the cry of a babe, a child's wail, difficult
to locate, indefinite in distance.

"What was it?" she whispered. "Did you hear?"

He made no answer, except to walk to her straight and take her by
the arms, looking sadly, mournfully into her face.

"Ah, my God! My God! Have I not heard? What else have I heard,
these years? And you're big enough not to ask--

"It can't endure this way," said he, after a time at last. "You
must go. Once in a while I forget. It's got to be good-by between
you and me. We'll set to-morrow morning as the time for you to go.

"As I have a witness," he said at last, "I've paid. Good-by!"

He crushed her to him once, as though she were no more than a
flower, as though he would take the heart of her fragrance. Then,
even as she felt the heave of his great body, panting at the touch
of her, mad at the scent of her hair, he put her back from him with
a sob, a groan. As when the knife had begun its work, his scarred
fingers caught her white arms. He bent over, afraid to look into
her eyes, afraid to ask if her throat panted too, afraid to risk
the red curve of her lips, so close now to his, so sure to ruin
him. He bent and kissed her hands, his lips hot on them; and so
left her trembling.

[Illustration: He bent and kissed her hands.]

CHAPTER XXII

THE WAY OF A MAID

It is the blessing of the humble that they have simplicity of