"You'll get wet an' be sick," Mary declared, launching into the conversation at the mention of possible chills and fevers. Lucy laughed unsteadily. "Oh, no, I shan't. Good night." She had crossed the veranda and was at the brink of the flight of steps when heavy feet came striding after her. "Wait! I'm goin' with you," said a tense voice. It was Martin. "Thank you very much, but I really don't need anybody." "I'm goin'," repeated the man doggedly. "I don't want you to," Lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability. "Likely not," observed Martin with stolid determination. "I wish you wouldn't," fretted Lucy angrily. "I'd much rather----" It was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. Martin paid no attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and an umbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway. Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, and above the lashings of their branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing foliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinct for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin's arm; then she drew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the long Webster driveway; then the man spoke: "'Tain't fur now," he said, halting short. "I'll give you the umbrella." He held it out to her. "But you'll get drenched." "No, indeed!" "But you will," insisted Lucy with spirit. "No matter." "It is matter. Besides, I can't see my way to the house without the lantern. It's dark as pitch." "Take 'em both, then." "Of course I shan't," replied the girl indignantly. "And anyway, if I did, I couldn't carry the two in this wind. If I can't have but one, I'd rather have the lantern." "That's nonsense!" Martin returned. "What use was there in my bringin' you home if you get soaked now?" "But I can't see an inch before my face without a light." "Just as you say, then. Here it is." Holding out the lantern, he took back the umbrella. "But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in the rain," burst out Lucy. "You said you didn't mind rain," retorted the man ironically. He stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to be working convulsively. Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness would persist, waited. "I ain't comin'," he remarked half to himself with dogged determination, as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. "I ain't comin'." The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the flutter of her dress against his body. "I ain't comin'," he repeated between his closed teeth. "Very well." With dignity, Lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the storm. "I _can't_ go with you," he suddenly burst out. "Don't you see I can't?"