“I’ll pull myself together again, never fear,” said Gordon. “Just give me to-night. You see that’s not all. I’ve something else to think about, too, now that I have time. It takes a fellow’s nerve away to have everything that is worth while drop out at once. But I’ve rallied before. I know I’m beastly selfish not to talk to you to-night, but—” “Dick,” interrupted Langford, bluntly, “did she turn you down?” “I never asked her. She is going back—home—next week.” “If you let her.” “You don’t quite understand, Paul,” said Gordon, a little wearily. “She said she could never live in this country—never. She would die here. Could I ask her after that? Could I ask her anyway, and be a man? I know. She would just pine away.” “Girls don’t pine—only in imagination. They are tougher than you give them credit for.” “But somehow, Mary seems different,” said Gordon, thoughtfully. He surprised a flush in his friend’s cheek. “You deserve her, old man, you’ll be very happy. She is the right kind. I congratulate you with all my heart.” An odd lump came into Langford’s throat. Despite Gordon’s vigorous and healthful manhood, there seemed always a certain pathos of life surrounding him. “I haven’t asked, either,” confessed Paul. “But you have made it possible for me to do so—to-night—to-morrow—whenever I can find a chance. Take my advice, old man, don’t let your girl go. You’ll find she is the kind after all. You don’t know her yet.” Paul left the room, and Gordon paced the narrow confines of his shabby office—back and forth—many times. Then he threw himself once more into his chair. The hours were long. He had all night to think about things. When morning came, all his weakness would be over. No one should ever again see him so unmanned as Paul had seen him to-night And when Louise should go—his arms fell nervelessly to the table. He remained thus a moment, his eyes fixed and unseeing, and then his head dropped heavily upon his arms. Alone in the night, Louise awoke. She found it impossible to fall asleep again. She was nervous. It must be something in the atmosphere. She tossed and tossed and flounced and flounced. She counted up to thousands. She made her mind a blank so often that she flew to thinking to escape the emptiness of it. Still her eyes were wide and her mind fairly a-quiver with activity. She slipped out of bed. She would tire herself into sleep. She even dressed. She would show herself. If she must be a midnight prowler, she would wear the garments people affect when they have their thoughts and energies fixed on matters mundane. Drawing the oil stove close to the window fronting the street, she sank into a chair, drew a heavy shawl over her shoulders, put her feet on the tiny fender, and prepared to fatigue herself into oblivion.