“That’s the thing I can’t forget. That’s the thing that worries me. It’s not the past. I’ve nothing to do with that. It’s the present that’s my affair. I can’t have everything while you have nothing. It don’t seem to me it’s like a man to act that way. It goes against me, anyhow. I don’t offer you this because of anything in the past; that’s my father’s affair. I don’t know anything about it. I offer it because I--I--I”--he stammered over the unfamiliar words and finally jerked out--“because I want to give back what belongs to you. That’s all there is to it. Please take it.” She looked directly into his eyes and said, gravely: “No. I’m sorry if it’s a disappointment, but I can’t.” Then she suddenly looked down, her face began to quiver, and she said in a broken undertone: “Don’t talk about it any more; it hurts me so.” Win turned quickly away from her and picked up his hat. He was confused and disappointed, and relieved, too, for he had done the most difficult piece of work of his life. But, at the moment, his most engrossing feeling was sympathy for this girl, so bravely drawing her pride together over the bleeding of her heart. She murmured a response in a steadier voice and he turned toward her. Had any of his society friends been by they would hardly have known him. The foolish manner behind which he sheltered his shy and sensitive nature was gone. He was grave and looked very much of a man. “Well, of course, it’s for you to say what you want. But there’s one thing I’d like you to promise.” “To promise?” she said uneasily. “Yes, and to keep it, too. And that is, if you ever want anything--help in any way; if you get blue in your spirits, or some one’s not doing the straight thing by you, or gone back on you--to come to me. I’m not much in some ways, but I guess I could be of use. And, anyway, it’s good for a girl to have some friend that she can count on, who’s a man. And”--he paused with the door-handle in his hand--“and now you know me, anyway, and that’s something. Will you promise?” “Yes, I’ll promise that,” said Mariposa, and moving toward him she gave him her hand. He pressed it, dropped it, and opened the door. A moment later Mariposa heard the hall door bang behind him. She sat down in the chair from which she had risen, her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyes on a rose in the carpet, trying to think, to understand what it meant. She did not hear the door open or notice Benito’s entrance, which was accomplished with some disturbance, as he was astride a cane. His spirited course round the room, the end of the cane coming in violent contact with the pieces of furniture that impeded his route, was of so boisterous a nature that it roused her. She looked absently at him, and saw him wreathed in smiles. Having gained her attention, he brought his steed toward her with some ornamental prancings. She noticed that he held a pair of gloves in his hands.