"A man can't eat his bride and have a trousseau, too," he laughed, as he drove off rapidly, leaving me standing by the old gate watching him. Then I turned and slowly walked out into the garden and down to the old graybeards. And seated on one of the grass mats I found the reason I had unconsciously been drawn back. Martha was waiting for me there. "Why, Martha," I exclaimed, startled without understanding just why. "I might have gone and not known you were waiting. Why didn't you come and tell me you were here?" "I couldn't--I found I couldn't," she answered me, looking up into my face with her strange, sad eyes. "I--I suppose I just came to peep in on you like I did to the coming-out party." She laughed softly, with a note of self-scorn in her voice. "Is anything the matter with--with Sonny?" I asked quickly, again unconsciously using the name for the Stray that her tenderness had given him. Her white face and desperate manner frightened me. "No, he's dressed in one of Jimmy Morgan's old suits and he is going to be taken from me this afternoon forever," she answered with the note of bitterness deepening. "But you want him to go to school, don't you, Martha?" I asked patiently, as I sat down on a mat beside her. I spoke to her as one speaks to the limited intelligence of a child and I was slightly impatient at her distress. "He asked me yesterday why everybody called him Stray and if it did mean Stranger like Charlotte said, and if he would always be called that or have an everyday name like Jimmy. Soon he'll know and then I'll lose him as I'm losing everything else." "Why won't you let me help you to--to begin over again?" I asked her, this time with less patience. "Why have you--you locked yourself away from me?" "I can't--I won't ever tell you. I must go back, now I've seen you in--in your happiness. But I don't hate you--I never have." And as she spoke Martha rose and began to walk rapidly away from me. "Oh, please don't go, Martha," I said. "In just three days I'll be going away for a long time, you know, and I want to help you in some way before I go. You ought to let me, and it worries me that you don't, now of all times," and as I put my selfish plea for ease to my conscience, something that was hot and rebellious made me want to stop the woman who was hurrying away from me. "I won't, I won't make you unhappy--but I must go. I must! I'll--I'll be happy--and good now--if _you'll_ only be happy. Good-bye!" And as she called back at me over her shoulder, Martha ran from me down through the hedge and into the door of the chapel, which always, night and day, rain and storm, stood slightly ajar. A queer pain smote me to see that she had run from me into the only place in all the broad, smiling Harpeth Valley where I could not--or would not, follow her. And the sanctuary that she sought was for every man, woman or child who wanted it--only I could not and would not seek it.