t was not the work-room, but the bedroom. The work-room was not
mentioned now, out of kindness to Bro. Lawrence threw himself down on
the narrow bed, and dropped his straw hat on the floor. "The world's a
miserable hole," he said, with unction.

Bro sat down on a three-legged stool, the only approach to a chair in
the room, and looked at him; one hand, in the pocket of his old, shrunk
linen coat, was touching a letter.

"Bah!" said Lawrence, clasping his hands under his head and stretching
himself out to his full length on the bed, "how in the world _can_ I
leave her, Bro? Poor little thing!"

Now to Bro, to whom Marion had always seemed a cross between a heavenly
goddess and an earthly queen, this epithet was startling; however, it
was, after all, but a part of the whole.

"It is a pity that you _should_ leave her," he replied slowly. "It would
be much better to take her with you."

"Yes, I know it would. I am a fickle sort of fellow, too, and have all
sorts of old entanglements over there, besides. They might take hold of
me again."

Bro felt a new and strange misgiving, which went through three distinct
phases, with the strength and depth of an ocean, in less than three
seconds: first, bewilderment at the new idea that anybody _could_ be
false to Marion; second, a wild, darting hope for himself; third, the
returning iron conviction that it could never be, and that, if Lawrence
deserted Marion, she would die.

"If you had money, what would you do?" he asked, coming back to the
present heavily.

"Depends upon how much it was."

"Five thousand dollars?"

"Well--I'd marry on that, but not very hilariously, old fellow."

"Ten?"

"That would do better."

Nothing has as yet been said of Lawrence Vickery's appearance. It will
be described now, and will, perhaps, throw light backward over this
narration.

Imagine a young man, five feet eleven inches in height, straight,
strong, but slender still, in spite of his broad shoulders; imagine, in
addition, a spirited head and face, bright, steel-blue eyes, a bold
profile, and beautiful mouth, shaded by a golden mustache; add to this,
gleaming white teeth, a dimple in the cleft, strongly molded chin, a
merry laugh, and a thoroughly manly air; and you have Lawrence Broughton
Vickery at twenty-eight.

When at last he took himself off, and went over to see Marion and be
more miserable still, Bro drew the letter from his pocket, and read it
for the sixth or seventh