He turned and smiled. “I am glad,” he said. “Glad I love you, no matter what comes between now and the end. I shall not worry you again with it, but I want you to know, to be sure in your heart, day by day, every hour, that I do love you and am longing for you. I have spoiled your evening.” “No,” she said. “It has been—sweet. So sweet!” He was startled to see her burst into tears, and sob with great, wrenching sobs that shook her small body. Presently she became calm, dried her eyes, smiled, and her smile was the ghost of a spirit of wistfulness. “If only,” she said, tremulously, “I were like other girls. But I’m not. I’m me. I’m selfish. I despise myself.” “No, no,” he said; “don’t remember this with a thought of pain. And do not withdraw from me altogether. Let us cancel to-night to start to-morrow on a new basis—as friends. You are lonely; I am lonely. I’ll not worry you with love. But I’ll try to be a dependable friend to you. Can we do that?” “It sounds impossible,” she said, “but we can try.” Love finds encouragement in trifles. The weight of Jim’s heaviness became less. He hoped. If Pandora had not loosed hope into the world the lovers’ portion would be miserable indeed. It was late when they reached the Widow Stickney’s, but she was waiting for them in her parlor. Her old eyes with their years of seeing were not to be deceived. She saw what she saw. Marie went quickly to her room. They said good night at the foot of the stairs. Jim extended his hand, held her little one in his grasp. “Good night, friend,” he said, and smiled into her face. She sat beside her window without undressing, motionless, even her eyes seeming without motion. She was wrestling, even as Jacob had wrestled, with an angel. But her angel had no divine touch of the finger to conquer her as the patriarch had been conquered. The angel met defeat. Marie lay face downward on the bed, tearless, passing through the agony she had brought on herself. “I love him,” she whispered. “I love him. But I can’t. I can’t.” CHAPTER XVI Between the fall of darkness Sunday night and the breaking of dawn on Monday industrious persons had beautified Diversity by nailing to tree, fence, and barn half-tone productions of a photograph of Peleg Goodwin, wherein Peleg was shown wearing a collar of the Daniel Webster type and an expression like a slightly soured Signer of the Declaration. Peleg’s beard was neatly trimmed; there was a part in his bushy hair. Somehow it did not impress one as authentic, but as a bit of trick photography. It excited some argument. People were disinclined to believe it really was Peleg, but some more glorious being who chanced to resemble Peleg somewhat. “That there Peleg!” snorted Dolf Springer. “You couldn’t pound Peleg’s face into no such noble expression with a sledge. That there’s Peleg’s twin brother that died and went to heaven ’fore Peleg got him into bad habits.”