"But that isn't what I--" "I'm afraid," he interrupted quietly, "you will have to concede so much to me--and sentiment." . . . In the morning Aunt Clara left. "This is what comes," was her benediction, "of marrying before you're ready and living beyond your means. I hope it will be a lesson to you never to do it again." David was too tired to smile. The rest of that week was too full for much thinking. The office was to be cleaned out. Trunks were to be packed, china and silver and bric-a-brac to be wrapped and boxed for storage, a thousand little preparations for moving when a new tenant for the apartment should have been found. David was grateful for that. He did not want time to think. Especially he did not want time to feel. On Sunday morning he took Shirley and Davy Junior to the train. Not once did he let the baby out of his arms. At the very last a doubt seemed to disturb Shirley. "David--" They were sitting in the station waiting-room then. "David, it's dear of you to let me go like this." "It's better than moping around here." "You don't think I'm selfish in wanting to go, do you?" He shook his head and kept his eyes on the child's face. "It doesn't mean I don't love you--oh, with all my heart! I'll be so lonesome for you. I'll be thinking of you all the time and write you every day. And when I come back--! Do you know, dear, I have the feeling that now, with the new position and the debts cleaned up soon, things are going to be different with us, so much brighter." "Why, I think so, Shirley." "I'm sure of it." She squeezed his hand. "When people love as we do, things just have to come out right." "Yes, Shirley." The gates were thrown open and they went out on the platform. The train thundered in. David took Shirley and Davy Junior into their car. He kissed her hastily and lingered longer over his good-by to the baby. Then he ran out of the car and stood again on the platform, while Shirley made the youngster wave his hand. David managed an answering smile. He walked homeward by a long roundabout way. The rest of that day he spent in working feverishly at unfinished odds and ends of packing. Then he got out all his sketches and plans and slowly tore them into bits, until the floor around him was littered with the fragments. Last of all he came to the St. Christopher's plans. But his hands refused his command to destroy. He sat looking at this evidence of his failure, until darkness fell and hid them from his sight. He rose then and, wrapping them up carefully, put them with the boxes for storage. There was nothing more that he could do. He had not eaten since morning but he was not hungry. He leaned back in a chair and let all the thoughts and feelings he had held at bay during the busy days rush at him in the darkness. An incredible loneliness was upon him, a sense of loss bitterer even than loneliness. It seemed that something for which he had paid dearly had been stolen from him.