ything but the deeps of Franklin's eyes--that
he was her only refuge; and closing her own eyes she stumbled towards
him and he received her in his arms.

They sat on the sofa, and Franklin clasped her while she wept, and she
seemed to re-enter childhood where all that she wanted was to cry her
heart out and have gentle arms around her while she confessed every
wrong-doing that had made a barrier between herself and her mother's
heart. 'O Franklin,' she sobbed, 'I'm so unhappy!'

He said nothing, soothing her as a mother might have done.

'Franklin, I loved him!' she sobbed. 'It was real: it was the reallest
thing that ever happened to me. I only sent for you because I knew that
he didn't love me. I loved him too much to go on if he didn't love me.
What I have suffered, Franklin. And now he is going to marry Helen. He
loves Helen. And I am not worthy of you.'

'Poor child,' said Franklin. He pressed his lips to her hair.

'You know, Franklin?'

'Yes, I know, dear.'

'I am not worthy of you,' Althea repeated. 'I have been weak and
selfish. I've used you--to hide from myself--because I was too
frightened to stand alone and give up things.'

'Well, you shan't stand alone any more,' said Franklin.

'But, Franklin--dear--kind Franklin--why should you marry me? I don't
love you--not as I loved him. I only wanted you because I was afraid. I
must tell you all the truth. I only want you now, and cling to you like
this, because I am afraid, because I can't go on alone and have nothing
to live for.'

'You'll have me now, dear,' said Franklin. 'You'll try that, won't you,
and perhaps you'll find it more worth while than you think.'

Something more now than fear and loneliness and penitence was piercing
her. His voice: poor Franklin's voice. What had she done to him? What
had they all done to him among them? And dimly, like the memory of a
dream, yet sharply, too, as such memory may be sharp, there drifted for
Althea the formless fear that hovered--formless yet urgent--when
Franklin had come to her in her desperate need. It hovered, and it
seemed to shape itself, as if through delicate curves of smoke, into
Helen's face--Helen's eyes and smile. Helen, charm embodied; Helen, all
the things that Franklin could never be; all the things she had believed
till now, Franklin could never feel or need. What did she know of
Franklin? so the fear whispered softly. What had Helen done to Franklin?
What had it meant to Franklin, that