His gloom was pressing heavier and heavier upon him, when suddenly there came a ring of his bell. Wondering who could be calling on him at that hour, he crossed the room and opened the door. A tall figure, heavily veiled and wearing a long coat, stepped in. Despite the veil and the dusk of the room, he knew her instantly. "Helen!" he exclaimed in an awed whisper. She did not speak. He closed the door and turned up the gas, and he saw she carried a small travelling bag in one hand. "Helen!" he said. She set the bag on a chair, and drew her veil up over the front of her hat. Her face was pale, determined. "I've come to stay," she said slowly. He could only stare at her. "I've come to stay," she repeated. "Helen!" he breathed. "I've left home--for good. I belong with you. I shall not go away." "Helen!" "We shall be married to-night." He gazed wordless at her white face, and he vaguely realised what her mind had passed through since he had left her five hours before. A wild joy sprang ablaze within him--yet he held fast to his old decision. "But Helen----" "I've thought it all over," she broke in. "Everything. Heretofore you've been the rock. Now I'm the rock--I can't be changed.... I understand that you've refused me because you want to save me, and I love you for it. But I have searched my soul--I know what I want, I know what I can bear, I know what is best for us both. I know, David!--I know! Since you would not take me, I have come here to force you to take me. You cannot avoid it. I shall not go away." His heart thrilled at her words, at the steadfastness of her erect figure. "But Helen!--when I think of the disgrace that will fall upon you--oh, I can't let you!" "The truth is not known about either of us," she returned, steadily. "If the truth were known and if justice were done, my father would be disgraced and I would share his disgrace, and you would be exalted. It would be I who would dishonour you. If I do get a part of your false disgrace, I only get what is due me. "You have borne this disgrace for years," she went on. "Don't you think I have the strength to bear, supported by you and love, what you have borne alone?" His heart drew him toward her with all its tremendous strength. "I've come to stay!" she repeated. He wavered. But his old decision had still another word. "There's one more thing, Helen. We can speak of it--we are no longer children." "No," she said. Her mind fluttered back a month to when they had stood together at the window of the Mission, and she smiled tremulously. "I'm twenty-eight." He remembered the day, too, and smiled. "And I'm thirty-one--and see, the gray hairs!" His face sobered. "There's another thing--children. Would it be fair to them?--to be born into disgrace?" A faint colour tinged her cheeks. "I have thought of everything--that too," she returned steadily. "In a few years you will have won the respect of all; it will be an honour, not a disgrace, to be your child."