"It's not the same thing. I've told you that, too, a great many times. I don't want to talk about it. It's different." "How is it different?" "I can't tell you." "You mean--it's different because I'm not good." "No, my child, I'm afraid it's different because I'm bad. That's as near as we can get to it." She shook her head in persistent, obstinate negation. "See here, Maggie, we must end it. We can't go on like this any more. We must give it up." "I can't," she moaned. "Don't ask me to do that, Wallie dear. Don't ask me." "I must, Maggie. _I_ must give it up. I told you, dear, before we took this place, that it must end, sooner or later, that it couldn't last very long. Don't you remember?" "Yes--I remember." "And you promised me, didn't you, that when the time came, you wouldn't--" "I know. I said I wouldn't make a fuss." "Well, dear, we've got to end it now. I only came to talk it over with you. There'll have to be arrangements." "I know. I've got to clear out of this." She said it sadly, without passion and without resentment. "No," he said, "not if you'd rather stay. Do you like the farm, Maggie?" "I love it." "Do you? I was afraid you didn't. I thought you hated the country." "I love it. I love it." "Oh, well then, you shan't leave it. I'll keep on the farm for you. And, see here, don't worry about things. I'll look after you, all your life, dear." "Look after me?" Her face brightened, "Like you used to?" "Provide for you." "Oh!" she cried. "_That_! I don't want to be provided for. I won't have it. I'd rather be let alone and die." "Maggie, I know it's hard on you. Don't make it harder. Don't make it hard for me." "You?" she sobbed. "Yes, me. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong. I can't do the right thing, whatever I do. It's wrong to stay with you. It's wrong, it's brutally wrong to leave you. But that's what I've got to do." "You said--you only said--just now--you'd got to end it." "That's it. I've got to end it." She stood up flaming. "End it then. End it this minute. Give up the farm. Send me away. I'll go anywhere you tell me. Only don't say you won't come and see me." "See you? Don't you understand, Maggie, that seeing you is what I've got to give up? The other things don't matter." "Ah," she cried, "it's you who don't understand. I mean--I mean--see me like you used to. That's all I want, Wallie. Only just to see you. That wouldn't be awful, would it? There wouldn't be any sin in that?" Sin? It was the first time she had ever said the word. The first time, he imagined, she had formed the thought. "Poor little girl," he said. "No, no, dear, it wouldn't do. It sounds simple, but it isn't." "But," she said, bewildered, "I love you." He smiled. "That's why, Maggie, that's why. You've been very sweet and very good to me. And that's why I mustn't see you. That's how you make it hard for me." Maggie sat down and put her elbows on the table and hid her face in her hands.