With his decision came the even more vital question as to what he should tell this girl. With the strength of his whole nature he craved the privilege of standing white before her. He longed to tell her the whole pitiful complication that he might stand before her without shadow of hypocrisy. He could then leave with his head up to meet his doom. But even this crumb of relief was refused him. To do this might break down the boy and would leave her, if only as a friend, to bear something of the ensuing hours. He must, then, leave her in darkness, suffering the lesser stings of doubt and suspicion and bewilderment. He must leave her in false colors to whatever she might imagine. She came back again with her lips quivering. "Poor Marie," she gasped. "She lies there broken hearted, praying to die." "I am sorry for her," he said gently. "I feel the blame of it," she answered. "Why must the curse of the house have fallen upon her?" "It is difficult to work out such matters," he replied. "But I don't think you should shoulder the responsibility. We each of us must bear the burden of our own acts. It makes it even harder when another tries to relieve us of this." "But I can't relieve her. That is the pity of it. She turns away her head from me for she has taken upon herself all the responsibility for Jacques." "That is the mother in her. There is nothing you can do." "She will die of grief." "Then she will be dead. So her relief will come." The girl drew back a little. "She must not die. I must not let her die." She looked up at him as though she expected him even in this emergency to suggest some way out of it. But he was speechless. "I must go back to her," she said after a minute. "I must go and comfort her." "Yes," he said, "that is the best you can do. Take her hand and hold it. That is all you can do. Ben is upstairs?" "Yes. I have n't told him yet." "Tell him," he advised. "It will help him to have an opportunity to help another." "Then you will excuse me?" "Of course. But there is something that I must tell you before you go. I must leave you both now." "You will come back to dinner with us?" "I 'm afraid I shall be unable. I start on a long journey. I must say good bye." She fixed her eyes upon him in a new alarm, waiting for what he should say next. But that was all. That was all he had to say. In those two words, "Good bye," he bounded all that was in the past, all that was in the future. "You have had some sudden call?" "Yes." "But you will come back again. Don't--don't make it sound so final." "I have no hope of coming back." "Oh," she cried, "I thought that now you might find a little rest." "Perhaps I shall. I do not know. But before I go I wish to insist again that you and Ben leave this house and get back into the country somewhere. Don't think I am presuming, but I should feel better if I knew you had this in mind. I see so clearly that it is the thing for you to do."