“Please! I told you I was not sure of my own feelings. I--I am sure now. I am so sorry you came. I should have written you. I had begun the letter.” Again silence. Then he laughed, a short, bitter laugh with anything but mirth in it. “I am a fool,” he said. “WHAT a fool I have been!” “Please, Crawford, don't speak so. . . . Oh, where are you going?” “I? I don't know. What difference does it make where I go? Good-by.” “Stop, Crawford! Wait! It makes a difference to your father where you go. It makes a difference to me. I--I value your friendship very highly. I hoped I might keep that. I hoped you would let me be your friend, even though the other could not be. I hoped that.” The minute before she had asked him to forget her, but she did not remember that, nor did he. He was standing by the door, looking out. For a moment he stood there. Then he turned and held out his hand. “Forgive me, Mary,” he said. “I have behaved like a cad, I'm afraid. When a fellow has been building air castles and all at once they tumble down upon his head he--well, he is likely to forget other things. Forgive me.” She took his hand. She could keep back the tears no longer; her eyes filled. “There is nothing for me to forgive,” she said. “If you will forgive me, that is all I ask. And--and let me still be your friend.” “Of course. Bless you, Mary! I--I can't talk any more now. You'll--” with an attempt at a smile--“you'll have to give me a little time to get my bearings, as your Uncle Shad would say.” “And--and won't you go back to your father? I shall feel so much happier if you do.” He hesitated. Then he nodded. “If you wish it--yes,” he said. “I suppose it is the thing I ought to do. Dad will be happy, at any rate. Oh, Mary, CAN'T you?” “No, Crawford, no. Yes, your father will be happy. And--and by and by you will be, too, I know. Are you going?” “Yes, I think I had better. I don't feel like meeting anyone and your Uncle Shad will be here soon, I suppose. Your man here--Isaiah--told me of Mr. Hamilton's sickness. I'm sorry.” “Yes, poor Uncle Zoeth! He is gaining a little, however. Crawford, I won't ask you to stay. Perhaps it will be best for both of us if you do not. But won't you write me just once more? Just to tell me that you and your father are reconciled? I should like to know that. And do forgive me--Oh, do! I HAD to say it, Crawford!” “I forgive you, Mary. Of course you had to say it. . . . But . . . Well, never mind. Yes, I'll write, of course. I hope . . . No, I can't say that, not now. I'd better go at once, I think, before I . . . Good-by.” He seized her hand, pressed it tightly, took his hat from the table and his bag from the floor and swung out of the door. In the doorway she stood looking after him. At the gate he turned, waved his hand, and hurried on. He did not look back again.