"To-morrow night (Friday)," she wrote, "the aunts are going to a meeting. They won't return until after eight o'clock. During most of that time Martha will be in the kitchen cooking, and Jane (who is staying late that night) has promised to give me a signal. I could run out for quarter of an hour and meet you somewhere close by and risk getting back. Jane will be ready to let me in. Of course, it may fail, but things can't be worse than they are ... I absolutely forbid you to come if you think that this can make anything worse for you at home. But I MUST see you, Martin ... I feel to-night as though I couldn't stand it any longer (although I've only had five days of it!), but I think that if I met you, really you, for only five minutes, I could bear it then for weeks. Let me know if you agree to this, and if so where we could meet about 7.30." The mere thought of seeing her was wonderful. He would not have believed a month ago that it could have come to mean so much to him. He wrote back: "Yes. At the corner of Dundas Street, by the Pillar Box, 7.30." He knew that she had been to that dark little street with her aunts to see Miss Pyncheon. The night, when it came, was misty, and when he reached the place she was at once in his arms. She had been there more than five minutes, she had thought that he was not coming. Martha had nearly caught her ... He kissed her hair and her eyes and her mouth, holding her to him, forgetting everything but her. She stayed, quiet, clinging to him as though she would never let him go, then she drew away. "Now we must walk about or some one will see us," she said. "We've only got five minutes. Martin, what I want to know is, are you happy?" "Yes," he said. They walked like ghosts, in the misty street. "Well, then I am," she said. "Only your letters didn't sound very happy." "Can you hold on till after the New Year?" They were walking hand in hand, her fingers curled in his palm. "Yes," she said. "If you're happy." "There are troubles of course," he said. "But I don't care for Amy and the rest. It's only father that matters. I can't discover how much he knows. If I knew that I'd be much happier. We'll be all right, Maggie, if nothing happens to him." With a little frightened catch in her throat she asked him: "How do you mean, if anything happens to him?" "If anything happened to him--" she could feel his hand stiffen round hers; "through me--then--why then--I'd leave you--everything--I'd have to." "Leave me! ... Oh Martin! No!" "I'd go. I'd go--I don't know where to. I don't know what I'd do. I'd know then that I must leave every one alone, always, for ever--especially you." "No. You'd need me more than ever." "You don't understand, Maggie. I'd be impossible after that. If father suffered through me that would be the end of it--the end of everything."