"Yes, yes, Mel, it's true--and cruel, what you say," returned Lane. "All the more reason why you should do what I ask. I am home after the war. All that was vain _is_ vain. I forget it when I can. I have--not a great while left. There are a few things even I can do before that time. One of them--the biggest to me--concerns you. You are in trouble. You have a boy who can be spared much unhappiness in life. If you were married--if the boy had my name--how different the future! Perhaps there can be some measure of happiness for you. For him there is every hope. You will leave Middleville. You will go far away somewhere. You are young. You have a good education. You can teach school, or help your parents while the boy is growing up. Time is kind. You will forget.... Marry me, Mel, for his sake." She had both hands pressed to her breast as if to stay an uncontrollable feeling. Her eyes, dilated and wide, expressed a blending of emotions. "No, no, no!" she cried. Lane went on just the same with other words, in other vein, reiterating the same importunity. It was a tragic game, in which he divined he must lose. But the playing of it had inexplicably bitter-sweet pain. He knew now that Mel loved him. No greater proof needed he than the perception of her reaction to one word on his lips--wife. She quivered to that like a tautly strung lyre touched by a skilful hand. It fascinated her. But the temptation to accept his offer for the sake of her boy's future was counteracted by the very strength of her feeling for Lane. She would not marry him, because she loved him. Lane read this truth, and it wrung a deeper reverence from him. And he saw, too, the one way in which he could break her spirit, make her surrender, if he could stoop to it. If he could take her in his arms, and hold her tight, and kiss her dumb and blind, and make her understand his own love for her, his need of her, she would accede with the wondrous generosity of a woman's heart. But he could not do it. In the end, out of sheer pity that overcame the strange delight he had in torturing her, he desisted in his appeals and demands and subtle arguments. The long strain left him spent. And with the sudden let-down of his energy, the surrender to her stronger will, he fell prey at once to the sadness that more and more was encompassing him. He felt an old and broken man. To this sudden change in Lane Mel responded with mute anxiety and fear. The alteration of his spirit stunned her. As he bade her good-bye she clung to him. "Daren, forgive me," she implored. "You don't understand.... Oh, it's hard." "Never mind, Mel. I guess it was just one of my dreams. Don't cry.... Good-bye." "But you'll come again?" she entreated, almost wildly. Lane shook his head. He did not trust himself to look at her then. "Daren, you can't mean that," she cried. "It's too late for me. I--I--Oh! You.... To uplift me--then to cast me down! Daren, come back."