“But I'll be with you.” “I don't want you to go down there,” he sullenly maintained. “But why, dear?” “It's a low, dirty place. I had to locate the shop there to get the room I needed for the rent I could pay. It's not fit for you. I'm going to move uptown in a little while.” “Please let me go,” she pleaded. He shook his head emphatically. “No.” She turned away to hide the tears. The first real, hideous fear she had ever had about him caught her heart in spite of every effort to fight it down. His workshop might be a myth after all. He had failed in the first test to which she had put him. It was horrible. All the vile suggestions of Jane Anderson rushed now into her memory. She struggled bravely to keep her head and not break down. It was beyond her strength. A sob strangled her, and she buried her face in her hands. Jim looked at her in helpless anguish for a moment, started to gather her in his arms and looked around the room in terror. He leaned over her and whispered tensely: “For God's sake, Kiddo--don't--don't do that! I didn't mean to hurt you--honest, I didn't. Don't cry any more and I'll take you right down to the black hole, and let you sleep on the floor if you want to. Gee! I'll give you the whole place, tools, junk and all----” She lifted her head. “Will you, Jim?” “Sure I will! We start this minute if you want to go.” She glanced over his shoulder to see that no one was looking, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again and again. “It was the first time you ever said no, dear, and it hurt. I'm happy again now. If you'll just let me see you in the shop for five minutes I'll never ask you again.” “All right--tomorrow when you get out of school. I'll take you down. Holy Mike, that was a dandy kiss! Let's quarrel again--start something else.” She rose laughing and brushed the last trace of tears from her eyes. “Let's eat dinner now--I'm hungry.” “By George, I'd forgot all about the feed!” By eight o'clock the storm had abated; the rain suddenly stopped, and the moon peeped through the clouds. He drove the big racer back at a steady, even stride on her lowest notch of speed--half the time with only his right hand on the wheel and his left gripping hers. As the lights of Manhattan flashed from the hills beyond the Queensborough Bridge, he leaned close and whispered: “Happy?” “Perfectly.” The car was waiting the next day at half-past three. “It's not far,” he said, nodding carelessly. “You needn't put on the coat. Be there in a jiffy.” Down Twenty-third Street to Avenue A, down the avenue to Eighteenth Street, and then he suddenly swung the machine through Eighteenth into Avenue B and stopped below a low, red brick building on the corner. He set his brakes with a crash, leaped out and extended his hands. “I didn't like to take you up these stairs at the back of that saloon, little girl, but you would come. Now don't blame me----” She pressed his arm tenderly.