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Albeit knew that he meant well, but he couldn’t, somehow, help saying, ironically:

“Thanks, but I guess one copy of Blaine’s Twenty Years will be enough in the house, especially–“

“Well, give her anything you please, and charge it up to the firm. I don’t insist on Blaine; only suggested that because–“

“I guess I can stand the expense of a present.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t, man! But I want a hand in this thing. Don’t be so turrible keen t’ snap a feller up,” complained Hartley, turning on him. “What the thunder is the matter of you, anyway? I like the girl, and she’s been good to us all round; she tended you like an angel–“

“There, there! That’s enough o’ that,” put in Albert, hastily. “For God’s sake, don’t whang away on that string forever, as if I didn’t know it!”

Hartley stared at him as he turned away.

“Well, by jinks! What is the matter o’ you?”

He was too busy to dwell upon it much, but concluded his partner was homesick.

Albert was beginning to have a vague underconsciousness of his real feeling toward the girl, but he fought off the acknowledgment of it as long as possible. His mind moved in a circle, coming back to the one point ceaselessly–a dreary prospect, in which that slender girl-figure had no place–and each time the prospect grew more intolerably blank, and the pain in his heart more acute and throbbing.

When he faced her that night, after they had returned from a final walk down by the river, he was as far from a solution as ever. He had avoided all reference to their separation, and now he stood as a man might at the parting of the ways, saying: “I will not choose; I cannot choose. I will wait for some sign, some chance thing, to direct me.”

They stood opposite each other, each feeling that there was more to be said: the girl tender, her eyes cast down, holding her hands to the fire; he shivering, but not with cold. He had a vague knowledge of the vast importance of the moment, and he hesitated to speak.

“It’s almost spring again, isn’t it? And you’ve been here”–she paused and looked up with a daring smile–“seems as if you’d been here always.”

It was about half-past eight. Mrs. Welsh was setting her bread in the kitchen; they could hear her moving about. Hartley was down-town finishing up his business. They were almost alone in the house. Albert’s throat grew dry and his limbs trembled. His pause was ominous. The girl’s smile died away as he took a seat without looking at her.

“Well, Maud, I suppose you know–we’re going away to-morrow.”

“Oh, must you? But you’ll come back?”

“I don’t expect to–I don’t see how I can. I may never see you again.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” cried the girl, her face as white as silver, her clasped hands straining.

“I must go–I must!” he muttered, not daring to look upon her face.

“Oh, what can I do–we do–without you! I can’t bear it!”

She stopped, and sank back into a chair, her breath coming heavily from her twitching lips, the unnoticed tears falling from her staring, pitiful, wild, appealing eyes, her hands nervously twisting her gloves.

There was a long silence. Each was undergoing a self-revelation; each was trying to face a future without the other.

“I must go!” he repeated, aimlessly, mechanically. “What can I do here?”

The girl’s heavy breathing deepened into a wild little moaning sound, inexpressibly pitiful, her hungry eyes fixed on his face. She gave way first, and flung herself down upon her knees at his side, her hands seeking his neck.

“Albert, I can’t live without you now! Take me with you! Don’t leave me!”

He stooped suddenly and took her in his arms, raised her, and kissed her hair.

“I didn’t mean it, Maud; I’ll never leave you–never! Don’t cry!”

She drew his head down and kissed his lips, then turned her face to his breast–then joy and confidence came back to her.