"But I never did forget--quite. Even when years and years had passed, and I could go everywhere and see all the beautiful things and places I had read about, and when I was with my friends, there was always something, somewhere, behind things. Those four years in New York were vague and elusive, as time passed. They seemed like a dream, or like a life that some one else had lived. But I know now; they were not a dream, and they were not a life that some one else lived. They were my life. I lived them myself. Don't you see--now?" Margaret's eyes were luminous with feeling. Her lips trembled; but her face glowed with a strange exaltation of happiness. "But what--do you mean--to do?" faltered the man. Margaret flushed and leaned forward eagerly. "I am going to do all that I can, and I hope it will be a great deal. I am going down there to live." "To live--not to live, child!" "Yes. Oh, I _know_ now," she went on hurriedly. "I have been among them. Some are wicked and some are thoughtless, but all of them need teaching. I am going to live there among them, to show them the better way." The man at the desk left his chair abruptly. He walked over to the window and looked out. The moon shone clear and bright in the sky. Down in the valley the countless gleaming windows and the tall black chimneys showed where the mill-workers still toiled--those mill-workers whom the man had come almost to hate: it was because of them that Margaret was going! He turned slowly and walked back to the girl. "Margaret," he began in a voice that shook a little, "I had not thought to speak of this--at least, not now. Perhaps it would be better if I never spoke of it; but I am almost forced to say it now. I can't let you go like this, and not--know. I must make one effort to keep you.... If you knew that there was some one here who loved you--who loved you with the whole strength of his being, and if you knew that to him your going meant everything that was loneliness and grief, would you--could you--stay?" Margaret started. She would not look into the eyes that were so earnestly seeking hers. It was of Ned, of course, that he was speaking. Of that she was sure. In some way he had discovered Ned's feeling for her, had perhaps even been asked to plead his cause with her. "Did you ever think," began Spencer again, softly, "did you ever think that if you did stay, you might find even here some one to whom you could show--the better way? That even here you might do all these things you long to do, and with some one close by your side to help you?" Margaret thought of Ned, of his impulsiveness, his light-heartedness, his utter want of sympathy with everything she had been doing the last few weeks; and involuntarily she shuddered. Spencer saw the sensitive quiver and drew back, touched to the quick. Margaret struggled to her feet.