"And Time and marriage might have worn me down, Perhaps, to be a good wife and a blest, With little children clinging to my gown, And little blind mouths fumbling for my breast, And this place would have been a place of rest For you and me; we could have come to know The depth; but that is over; I have got to go. "He has come back, and I have got to go. Our marriage ends." She stood there white and breathed. Old Occleve got upon his feet with "So." Blazing with wrath upon the hearth he seethed. A log fell from the bars; blue spirals wreathed Across the still old woman’s startled face; The cat arose and yawned. Lion was still a space. Old Occleve turned to Lion. Lion moved Nearer to Mary, picking up the ring. His was grim physic from the soul beloved; His face was white and twitching with the sting. "You are my wife, you cannot do this thing," He said at last. "I can respect your pride. This thing affects your soul; my judgment must decide. "You are unsettled, shaken from the shock." "Not so," she said. She stretched a hand to him, White, large and noble, steady as a rock, Cunning with many powers, curving, slim. The smoke, drawn by the door-draught, made it dim. "Right," Lion answered. "You are steady. Then There is but one world, Mary; this, the world of men. "And there’s another world, without its bounds, Peopled by streaked and spotted souls who prize The flashiness that comes from marshy grounds Above plain daylight. In their blinkered eyes Nothing is bright but sentimental lies, Such as are offered you, dear, here and now; Lies which betray the strongest, God alone knows how. "You, in your beauty and your whiteness, turn Your strong, white mind, your faith, your fearless truth, All for these rotten fires that so burn. A sentimental clutch at perished youth. I am too sick for wisdom, sick with ruth, And this comes suddenly; the unripe man Misses the hour, oh God. But you, what is your plan? "What do you mean to do, how act, how live? What warrant have you for your life? What trust? You are for going sailing in a sieve. This brightness is too mortal not to rust. So our beginning marriage ends in dust. I have not failed you, Mary. Let me know What you intend to do, and whither you will go." "Go from this place; it chokes me," she replied. "This place has branded me; I must regain My truth that I have soiled, my faith, my pride, It is all poison and it leaves a stain. I cannot stay nor be your wife again. Never. You did your best, though; you were kind. I have grown old to-night and left all that behind. "Goodbye." She turned. Old Occleve faced his son. Wrath at the woman’s impudence was blent, Upon his face, with wrath that such an one Should stand unthrashed until her words were spent. He stayed for Lion’s wrath; but Mary went Unchecked; he did not stir. Her footsteps ground The gravel to the gate; the gate-hinge made a sound