“Nothin', nothin' at all. I think she heard me and understood, but she didn't say anything. Just sat there, white and trembling and crushed, sort of, and looked and looked at me. I wanted to put my arms around her and ask her pardon and beg her to love me as I did her, but I didn't dare--I didn't dare. I did say that you and I would be only too glad to have her stay with us always, as one of the family, you know. If she'd only forget all the bad part that had gone and do that, I said--but she interrupted me. She said 'Forget!' and the way she said it made me sure she never would forget. And then--and then she asked me if I would please go away and leave her. Would I PLEASE not say any more now, but just leave her, only leave her alone. So I came away and--and that's all.” “That's all,” I repeated. “It is enough, I should say. Oh, Hephzy, why did you do it? Why couldn't it have gone on as it has been going? Why did you do it?” It was an unthinking, wicked speech. But Hephzy did not resent it. Her reply was as patient and kind as if she had been answering a child. “I had to do it, Hosy,” she said. “After our talk this evenin' there was only one thing to do. It had to be done--for your sake, if nothin' else--and so I did it. But--but--” with a choking sob, “it was SO hard to do! My Ardelia's baby!” And at last, I am glad to say, I began to realize how very hard it had been for her. To understand what she had gone through for my sake and what a selfish brute I had been. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her almost reverently. “Hephzy,” said I, “you're a saint and a martyr and I am--what I am. Please forgive me.” “There isn't anything to forgive, Hosy. And,” with a shake of the head, “I'm an awful poor kind of saint, I guess. They'd never put my image up in the churches over here--not if they knew how I felt this minute. And a saint from Cape Cod wouldn't be very welcome anyway, I'm afraid. I meant well, but that's a poor sort of recommendation. Oh, Hosy, you DO think I did for the best, don't you?” “You did the only thing to be done,” I answered, with decision. “You did what I lacked the courage to do. Of course it was best.” “You're awful good to say so, but I don't know. What'll come of it goodness knows. When I think of you and--and--” “Don't think of me. I'm going to be a man if I can--a quahaug, if I can't. At least I'm not going to be what I have been for the last month.” “I know. But when I think of to-morrow and what she'll say to me, then, I--” “You mustn't think. You must go to bed and so must I. To-morrow will take care of itself. Come. Let's both sleep and forget it.” Which was the very best of advice, but, like much good advice, impossible to follow. I did not sleep at all that night, nor did I forget. God help me! I was realizing that I never could forget.