ne time, when I was a girl," she
cried. "I wanted to prove that you c'd raise biscuits without the
bakin' powder--I was terrible headstrong; I know what 'tis well
'nough, an' how hard 'tis to give 'way--an' she was tryin' to
persuade me.

"'I think 't least you might let me make th' experiment,' I says,
an' she turned to me--I c'n see her now an',

"'Luella,' says she, 'it's all very well for you to make th'
experiment, but I'm the one that'll have to pay the bill!' she says.

"It'll be like that with you, Mr. Wortley--you'll make th'
experiment, but _she'll_ pay!"

There was another silence.

"We always pay," Luella added thoughtfully, "it don't seem just
fair, but we do."

The young man shook himself suddenly, like a dog fresh from the
water.

"I didn't mean to--God knows I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head," he
said, in a low voice. His hands relaxed, his shoulders drooped. "It
seemed the best thing only this morning--is that what you meant this
morning, Dorothy, when we--when we--when I went away?" he asked
gently.

She held out her hand to him, still clasping Caroline, and he knelt
beside her, one arm around her neck.

"I--I don't want you ever--to do--what you--think--is--is wrong,"
she said brokenly, but with a brave effort at steadiness.
"I'll--I'll never--leave you--Frank."

She gazed adoringly into his eyes, her hand tight in his. Luella's
mouth twitched and she choked as she spoke.

"Oh, Mr. Wortley," she urged, "it isn't that I don't see what you
mean--partly. You think I don't, but I do. There's awful mistakes
made in marryin', we all see 'em; even 'way back here in the country
dreadful things happen, an' the papers--we c'n read 'em, that's
enough an' more'n enough. There's things that ought to be changed, I
know, but not the way you want to change 'em--oh, not that way! It
can't help any, not marryin', don't you see--folks must just take
pains and marry more careful, 'cause we've begun this way and now we
can't stop without somebody gettin' hurt--and that won't be you, nor
any other man. Marryin's all we've got to tie to, Mr. Wortley, us
women, an' we can't quit now!"

The boy looked thoughtfully at her: "I--I think perhaps you are
right," he said slowly. He appeared unaccountably older; small,
worried lines were cutting themselves deep around his eyes and
mouth.

He threw back his head in an attempt to regain the old, masterful
manner.

"I hope I am too sincere not to state honorably