She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burst into a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. He sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. 'Peggy, old girl--' She broke from him. 'Don't you touch me! Don't you do it! Gee, I wish I'd never seen you!' She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her. Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe. Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled--a pathetic little smile. 'Peggy!' He took a step towards her. She held out her hand. 'I'm sorry, George. I feel mean.' 'Dear old girl, what rot!' 'I do. You don't know how mean I feel. You've been real nice to me, George. Thought I'd look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!' On the following night he waited, but she did not come. The nights went by, and still she did not come. And one morning, reading his paper, he saw that _The Island of Girls_ had gone west to Chicago. 4 Things were not running well for Rutherford. He had had his vacation, a golden fortnight of fresh air and sunshine in the Catskills, and was back in Alcala, trying with poor success, to pick up the threads of his work. But though the Indian Summer had begun, and there was energy in the air, night after night he sat idle in his room; night after night went wearily to bed, oppressed with a dull sense of failure. He could not work. He was restless. His thoughts would not concentrate themselves. Something was wrong; and he knew what it was, though he fought against admitting it to himself. It was the absence of Peggy that had brought about the change. Not till now had he realized to the full how greatly her visits had stimulated him. He had called her laughingly his mascot; but the thing was no joke. It was true. Her absence was robbing him of the power to write. He was lonely. For the first time since he had come to New York he was really lonely. Solitude had not hurt him till now. In his black moments it had been enough for him to look up at the photograph on the mantelpiece, and instantly he was alone no longer. But now the photograph had lost its magic. It could not hold him. Always his mind would wander back to the little, black-haired ghost that sat on the table, smiling at him, and questioning him with its grey eyes. And the days went by, unvarying in their monotony. And always the ghost sat on the table, smiling at him.