“Oh, let us always hope so!” said Lawson lightly. “Who knows? Perhaps I’ll turn into a highly respectable individual and make money. You can’t be respectable without money, I’ve tried it, and I know. I had a sort of an opening in Central Africa which my dear brother-in-law pressed upon me, but I decided against it.” “Central Africa!” “Yes. I appreciated Leverich’s feelings in the plan—you can’t get back easily from Central Africa, if you get back at all. So I’m going, for good or bad, to a nice little mining-camp in Nevada, where you get your mail every six weeks or so, and where you can go down into your grave any way you please without scandalizing your friends. I’ll be really quite out of the way.” “Out of the way!” Her heart leaped with pride in him. How little William knew of this man! “Yes, out of everybody’s way—and yours, dear little girl. I’m not good enough for much, but perhaps I’m good enough for that.” “Oh,” said Dosia, distressed and fascinated by his tone of real feeling. “But why—oh, I shall miss you so much—and think of you—so much!” Her voice broke. “I can’t bear to think of your going off in this way—so lonely.” There was a shriek from farther down the barge. “It’s beginning to rain, it’s beginning to rain!” A wild scramble ensued for cloaks and umbrellas. A furious shower was descending almost with the words, and the whole party slid off the two long seats into the straw on the bottom of the barge, and cowered under the carriage-robes pulled up around them for a shelter, showing only a mass of umbrellas above. Lawson’s quick movements had insured Dosia’s protection. “You are not getting wet at all?” He bent over her tenderly under the enveloping umbrella. “Not at all,” she whispered. It was as if everything were a confidence now. She reverted to the subject of their conversation: “Oh, do you think you will really not come back?” He laughed. “Yes, I mean it—now. Of course, you know that’s my chief fault—my resolutions are too frequently writ on sand.” He spoke of his own weakness with the bitter yet facile contempt which too often enervates still more instead of strengthening. “Yes, I mean it. Do you wonder I took your hand? Are you sorry I’m going—? is my little friend sorry? She mustn’t be sorry; you know, nobody is sorry—she must be glad to get rid of inc. Speak—and say it.” “No,” whispered Dosia.