“How did I know!” She laughed unsteadily. “How does one know anything? The heart tells one things sometimes. You'll be busy tomorrow--so many other things to think about. Robbie's present doesn't matter. It's growing late... Good-bye.” He stood astonished at her abruptness. What had he done that she should be so anxious to rid herself of him? When he did not seem to see her proffered hand, but stared at her gloomily, her nerves broke. “Go. Why don't you go?” she cried fiercely. “You know you'll be happy.” “You want me to go?” he asked quietly. Had she heard her own voice, she would have given way to weeping. With her handkerchief pressed tightly against her lips, she nodded. He turned slowly, looked back from the threshold for a sign of relenting and dragged his way haltingly down the stairs. In the hall beneath the mistletoe he paused to listen. He fancied he had heard the muttering of sobbing. So long as he paused he heard nothing; it was only when he began to move that again he thought he heard it. Having flung his coat about his shoulders, he eased his arm into the sleeve. This wasn't what he had come for--a very different ending! And now the chance of the little house had arrived. Windows, chairs, tables, walls, we had all pledged ourselves to help her. He attempted to let himself out; the frontdoor refused to budge. He pulled, tugged and worked at the latch without avail. “Shan't go. Shan't go. Shan't go,” ticked the grandfather's clock excitedly. Then the usual thing happened, which always happened when the grandfather's clock got excited. There was a horrible _whirr_ of the spring running down; the weights dropped with a bang. In the silence that followed he listened. She thought he had gone. There could be no mistake now; she was crying as if her heart would break. The stairs creaked to warn her as he ascended. She could not have heard them, for when he stepped into the room she took no notice. She had sunk to the floor and lay with her face hidden in the cushions of the chair, with the gold light from the lamp spilling over her. For some moments he watched her--the shuddering rise and fall of her shoulders. “You told me to go,” he said. “The little house won't let me; it was always kind to us.” And then, when she made no answer, “It's true. I've got my sailing orders. But it was you who told me to go.” She was listening now. He knew that, for the half-moon shoulders had ceased to shudder. The smell of Jacqueminot drew him to her. Bending over her, he stole one hand from beneath the buried face. “Do I need to go?” And still there was no answer. It was then that the old grey parrot spoke. He had pretended to be sleeping. “What shall we talk about?” he whispered hoarsely; and, when an interval had elapsed, “Robbie?” The little lady, who had needed to be loved, lifted up her tear-stained face and the wounded officer who had wanted rest, bent lower.