With the new day came new courage to the lover. Marcia cared for him, by her own tacit confession. After all, his fault had been a minor one; there was sound defense for it: he could convince her of that, and overbear her intention of leaving him. What he failed to perceive was this: that the girl was concerned, not with a fault, but with a flaw of character divined by her subtle and powerful intuition. But a world without Marcia Ames was unthinkable to young Jeremy Robson, considering the prospect calmly in the light of day; and being unthinkable, there remained only to devise the best means of combating her illogical and even--he would go thus far--unfair judgment of himself. Growing more assured and comfortable in his mind, as the day wore on, he contrived to finish up his work early, and left the office at a jubilant skip, intent on getting to Montgomery Street with the least possible delay. He was n’t even going by way of the Boot & Shoe Infirmary. Eli Wade could wait. On the sidewalk he was accosted by young Burton Higman, who glanced sidelong at him out of ashamed-looking, swollen eyes. “Cut it short, Buddy,” said the hasting Jem. “She’s gone,” said the small boy. Jem stopped dead in his tracks. “Who’s gone?” “Miss Marcy.” “Where? When?” demanded Jem wildly. “Chicago. Three-thirty-seven,” returned the precise Buddy. A pall of dimness settled down over the glaring street; hot, stark, sterile dimness through which the figures of trivial folk moved lifelessly on futile errands. “Did she leave any message?” inquired Jem, presently, in a voice which would have been life-like from a phonograph. “Told me to tell you.” “Why did she go--so soon?” The query was put, not to young Mr. Higman but to a blind and juggernaut providence. It was young Mr. Higman, however, who responded. “Afraid,” he stated. “Afraid? What of?” “Herself. She told me so when she k-k-kissed me goodbye.” Buddy’s eyes winked rapidly. “But she didn’t tell me to tell you that,” he reflected. “Did she give you any other message?” “Not exac’ly a message.” “Go on! Out with it.” “You need n’t _bite_ a feller,” expostulated young Mr. Higman. “She told me if ever you got what you was after, to go to you an’ ast for a job, when I needed it, for the sake of a mut--mut--some kind of friend.” Jem registered a silent and pious vow. “Is that all?” “Yes. Do I get the job?” “If I can give it to you.” “Say, Mr. Robson. I guess she meant you was that kind of friend. Are you a friend of hern?” Jem got it out at last: “Yes.” Young Mr. Higman’s eyes became suddenly more strained and ashamed-looking. “I’m goin’ to miss her somethin’ awful, Mr. Robson,” he said. “Ain’t you?” But Mr. Robson had passed on. Buddy wondered whether he had suffered a touch of the sun. He seemed uncertain in his walk. CHAPTER VIII