At the door Uncle Arthur looked severely at the dapper, excited youth on the steps. 'It may make a man of you. It will certainly throw you on your own resources. I shall have to trust you to release me formally from all responsibility after your birthday. And'--sharply--'understand, you are never to come to me for help. You have your chance. You have chosen your path.' 6 Eleven at night. The Country Club was bright; Henry passed it on the farther side of the street. He could hear music and laughter there. They choked him. With averted face he rushed by. Henry entered at the gate before the old Dexter Smith mansion; then slipped off among the trees. His throat was dry. He was giddy and hot about the head. He wondered, miserably, if he had a fever. Very likely. There were lights here, too; downstairs. Some one calling, perhaps--that friend of James B. Merchant's. Henry gritted his teeth. It was too late to call. Yet he had had to come, had been drawn irresistibly to the spot. What mattered it after all, who might be calling. He told himself that his life was to be, hereafter, one of sorrow, of frustration. He must be dignified about it. He must make it a life worthy of his love and his great sacrifice. The front door opened. A man and a woman came down the steps. An elderly couple. He stood very still, behind a tree, while they walked past him. A sign of uncontrollable relief escaped him. It was something. Cicely had at last spared him a stab. Lights went out in the front room. Lights came on upstairs. Still he lingered. Then, after a little, his nervous ears caught a sound that tingled through his body. The front door opened. And standing in the opening behind the screen door, silhouetted against the light, he saw a slim girl. His temples were pounding. His throat went dry. The girl came out. Paused. Called over her shoulder in a voice that to Henry was velvet and gold--'In a few minutes'--and then seated herself midway down the steps and leaned her head against the railing. He could see her only faintly now. Henry moved forward, curiously dazed, tiptoeing over the turf, slipping from tree to tree. Drew near. She lifted her head. There was a breathless pause. Then, 'What is it?' she called. 'What is it? Who's there?... O--oh! Why, _Henry!_ You frightened me... What is it? Why do you stand there like that. You aren't ill, Henry?... Where on earth have you been? I've waited and waited for you. I couldn't think what had happened, not having any word.... What is the matter, Henry? You act all tired out. Do sit down here.' 'No,'--the queer breathy voice, Henry knew, must be his own. He was thinking, wildly, of dead souls' standing at the Judgment Seat. He felt like that.... 'No, I can't sit down.' 'Henry! What is it?' Henry stood mournfully staring at her. Finally in the manner of one who has committed a speech to memory, he said this:--