hand of a novice--gashing his fingers at every
turn, and eventually stabbing his honest heart.

It was impossible to make him see my refusal was for his good. He was as
a favourite child pleading for a dangerous toy. I desired to gratify him,
but the awful responsibility of the after-effects loomed up and deterred
me.

"Hal, it can never be."

He dropped my hands and drew himself up.

I will not take your No till the morning. Why do you refuse me? Is it my
temper? You need not be afraid of that. I don't think I'd hurt you; and I
don't drink, or smoke, or swear very much; and I've never destroyed a
woman's name. I would not stoop to press you against your will if you
were like the ordinary run of women; but you are such a queer little
party, that I'm afraid you might be boggling at some funny little point
that could easily he wiped out."

"Yes; it is only a little point. But if you wipe it out you will knock
the end out of the whole thing--for the point is myself. I would not suit
you. It would not he wise for you to marry me."

"But I'm the only person concerned. If you are not afraid for yourself, I
am quite satisfied."

We faced about and walked homewards in unbroken silence--too perturbed to
fall into our usual custom of chewing bush-leaves as we went.

I thought much that night when all the house was abed. It was tempting.
Harold would he good to me, and would lift me from this life of poverty
which I hated, to one of ease. Should I elect to remain where I was, till
the grave there was nothing before me but the life I was leading now: my
only chance of getting above it was by marriage, and Harold Beecham's
offer was the one chance of a lifetime. Perhaps he could manage me well
enough. Yes; I had better marry him.

And I believe in marriage--that is, I think it the most sensible and
respectable arrangement for the replenishing of a nation which has yet
been suggested. But marriage is a solemn issue of life. I was as suited
for matrimony as any of the sex, but only with an exceptional
helpmeet--and Harold was not he. My latent womanliness arose and pointed
this out so plainly that I seized my pen and wrote:

Dear Harold,

I will not get a chance of speaking to you in the morning, so write.
Never mention marriage to me again. I have firmly made up my mind--it must
be No. It will always be a comfort to me in the years to come to know
that I was loved once, if only for a few hours. It is not that I do