Aurora Lane turned to him now a brave face, the same brave face she had turned to the world all these years. "Oh," said she, "if only I had learned to lie! Maybe some women could lie to you. And women get so tired--so awfully tired sometimes--I couldn't blame them. I might marry you, yes--I believe I could. But I would never lie to you--I won't lie to you now." "What are you going to say to me, Aurie?" "What I'm going to say to all the world! I've never been married to anyone and can't be now. It would be more horrible to me than--that other. It's too late. It--it means too much to me--marriage--marriage--marriage! Don't--don't--you mustn't say some things to a woman. Oh, if all this had happened twenty years ago, when I was young, I might have been weak enough to listen to what you say. I was weak and frightened then--I didn't know how I'd ever get on--all life was a terror to me. But that was twenty years ago. I've made my fight now, and I've learned that after a fashion at least I could get on--I did--I have. I can go on through alone the rest of the way, and it's right that I should. That's what I'm going to do!" She saw the great hand clutch the more tightly on two picket tops. They broke under the closing grip of his great hand. "That's right hard," said he simply. "We can't be married now? But--tell me, can't I help you?" "Oh, no, no, don't--don't talk of that!" she said. She was weeping now. "Don't try to help me," she sobbed bitterly. "You can't help me--nobody can help me--there's no help in the world--not even God can help me! You've been cruel--all the world has been nothing but cruel to me all my life. I've nothing to hope--there's nothing that can help me, nothing. I'm one of the lost, that's all. Until today, I'd hoped. I never will hope again." Now she felt the great hand closing once more on top of hers above the broken pickets. "Listen, Aurora," said he, "if it doesn't seem that you and I can be married, there's nothing in the world which makes it wrong for me to help you all I can--you mustn't think I didn't love you. You don't think that, do you?" "I don't know what I think!" said she, rubbing at the ceaseless tears, so new to her. "All these matters have been out of my life--forever, as I thought. But sometimes--I've been so lonesome, you know, and so helpless--I'm tempted. It's hard for a woman to live all alone--it's almost a thing impossible--she's so lonesome--sometimes I almost think I could depend on you, even now." "That's fine!" said he, choking up; "that's fine. I expect that's about all I had coming to me after all. So I oughtn't to be sorry--I ought to be very happy. That's about the finest thing I ever heard in all my life." "And about the sweetest words I ever heard in all my life were what you said just now--after knowing all you do about me."