way. Since we got into the hole through our own
carelessness, let us work our own way out."

"Humph! More sentiment. You'd make your family pay for your weakness.
However," Aunt Clara rose with the air of having done her whole duty,
"I've made my offer. It is for you to decide. I will now go into the
other room while you and Shirley talk it over. I make it a rule never
to intrude into discussions between husband and wife."

She moved toward the living-room. David ushered her to the door and
closed it behind her. Then he turned to Shirley. . . . .

He had made many mistakes, no doubt, been as weak and foolish as Aunt
Clara said. But they had been loving faults, born of a deep desire to
make Shirley happy. And he had atoned for them. He had declared
himself to his world a failure; he had swallowed and forgiven the word
that ought never to be on a wife's tongue. Because it seemed best for
her, he had given up a work that was very dear to him, even in failure;
how dear, he had not known until he had resigned it, as he thought,
forever. He had taken unto himself a master and a task that to his
cast of mind could never be aught but drudgery. It was no easy thing
he had done. But he had not whimpered, he had made an effort, none the
less brave because so boyishly obvious, to keep up a smiling front. He
had sought to offer his gift from the heart, ungrudgingly, because he
had loved her, still loved her, he thought.

That which they had now to decide seemed big and vital to him. His
pride was touched. A need was involved. Good sense might counsel
acceptance of Aunt Clara's offer, but he thought it cowardly. Since
they had failed in the issue of making a living, the brave course was
to retrieve that failure by themselves. More--it did not seem to him
the act of a loving woman to leave him, even for a few months, when his
need of her and her love was greatest.

He did not ask her to count the cost of his gift; he knew she could
not. He did want her to _justify_ the gift, to prove that the love for
which he had paid so big a price was real love dwelling in a fine brave
woman's heart. . .

Shirley was sitting at the table. He went to a chair across from her.
She looked up eagerly.

"Shirley, shall you mind very much if I say, no?"

"I think the only sensible thing is to take her at her word."

"Perhaps. But I'd rather not be under obligations to--to anybody."

"Oh, that's just sentiment, as Aunt C