"Could you do for my children what you have not done for yourself?" she asked him earnestly. "How much would you see of them? How much would you know of them? How much of your time would you be willing to sacrifice to learn patiently the inner lives of two little children? You would be busy all day, like the other people I know, making money for them to dress like other well-to-do children, for them to live in this fine, big house, for them to go to expensive private schools with the children of the people you know socially--for them to be as much as possible like the fatherless child I was." Lydia clenched her thin hands and went on passionately: "I would rather my children went ragged and hungry than to be starved of real companionship." The doctor made a shocked gesture. "But, Lydia, someone must earn the livings. You are--" Lydia broke in fiercely: "They are not earning livings--they are earning more dresses and furniture and delicate food than their families need. They are earning a satisfaction for their own ambitions. They are willing to give their families anything but time and themselves." "Lydia! Lydia! I never knew you to be cruel before! They can not help it--the way their lives are run. It's not that they wish to--they can not help it! It is against an economic law you are protesting." "That economic law has been broken by _one_ person I know," said Lydia, "and that is the reason I--" The doctor flushed darkly. The tears rose to his eyes. "Lydia, oh, my dear! trust me--trust me! I, too, will--I swear I will do all that you wish--don't turn away from me--trust me--!" Lydia's mouth began to quiver. "Ah! don't make me say what must sound so cruel!" The doctor stared at her hard. "Make you say, you mean, that you _don't_ trust me." She drew a little, pitiful breath, and turned away her head. "Yes; that is what I mean," she said. She went on hurriedly, putting up appealing hands to soften her words, "You see--it's the children--I _must_ do what is best for them. It must be done once for all. Suppose you found you couldn't now, after all these years, turn about and be different? Suppose you found you couldn't arrange a life that the children could be a part of, and help in, and really do their share and live with you. You _mean_ to--I'm sure you mean to! But you never _have_ yet! How dare I let you try if you are not sure? I can't come back if I am dead, you know, and make a new arrangement. Mr. Rankin has proved that he can--" At the name, the doctor's face darkened. He shot a black look at the younger man sitting beside him in his strange silence. "What has Rankin done?" he asked bitterly. "I should say the very point about him is that he has done nothing." "He has tried, he has tried, he is trying," cried Lydia, beating her hands on the table. "Think! Of all the people I know, he is the only one who is even trying. That was all I wanted myself. That is all I dare ask for my children--a chance to try."