"I won't cry," she promised. "But if you knew how pleasant it is when it only means somebody understands and likes you just as well--" "Better," said the voice. "I always like you better. Whatever you do, that's the effect it has. Now let's talk about your father. We can't stop his coming?" "No. Nobody ever stopped him yet in anything." "Then what can we do to him after he gets here?" "That's what I am trying to think. Sometimes I'm afraid I must run away--before he comes." "Yes, playmate, if you think so." There was something sharp in the tone: a quick hurt, a premonition of pain, and it was soothing to her. "But I've so little money." She said that to herself, and his answer shocked her. "There's money, if that's all. I'll bury it here under a stone, and you shall find it." "No! no! no! How could you! oh, how could you!" The voice was hurt indeed now, and willing to be thought so. "Why, playmate, is that so dreadful? Money's the least important thing there is." "It is important," said she broodingly. "It seems to me all my miseries, my disgraces have come from that." "You don't want to tell me about them? You don't think it would make them better?" "You said you didn't care. You said what we had lived through--what I had--these twenty-five years, made no difference!" "Not to me. But when it comes to you, why, maybe I could help you." She thought a while and then answered definitely and coldly,-- "No, I can't do it. I should have to tell--too many things." "Then we won't think of it," said the voice. "Only you must remember, there's money and there's--Peter to take you off and hide you somewhere. You can trust Peter." Again he seemed ready to break their companionship, and she wondered miserably. "You seem to think of nothing but my going away." "I must think of it. Nothing is more likely." "You don't seem to care!" "Playmate!" Again the voice reproached her. "Well!" "There's but one thing I think of--really. To give you a little bit of happiness while you are here. After that--well, you can make the picture for yourself. I shall come to the playhouse every night--alone." The one thing perhaps that had been the strongest in guiding her romantic youth had been eternal faithfulness. Her heart beat at the word "forever." Now her gratitude outran his calm. "Will you do it?" she cried. "Shall I promise?" "No! no! I would not have you do it really--only want to do it. Do you think you will remember--to want to come?" He said the words after her, so slowly that they seemed to come from lips set with some stern emotion. "I shall remember. I shall want to come." She rose. "Good-night," she said. "Shake hands?" "No," said the voice, "not that. In playhouses you can't shake hands. Good-night--dear lady." She turned away, and then, because she was silent the voice called after her,-- "Playmate!" "Yes." "I shall follow you to the wall and watch you home. You're not afraid?" "No, I'm not afraid."