“By golly, you sha'n't go, then!” he cried. “I was thinking of coming out there to visit you, but--but it would be better yet for you to stay right here in little old New York.” This brought back Kedzie's smile. But she faltered, “What if they hold me to my contract, though?” “Then we'll bust the old contract. I'll buy 'em off. You needn't work for anybody.” There was enough of the old-fashioned woman of one sort left in Kedzie to relish the slave-block glory of being fought over by two purchasers. She spoke rather slyly: “But I'll be without wages then. How would I live? I've got to work.” Dyckman answered at once: “Of course not. I'll take care of you. I offered to before, you know.” He had made a proposal of marriage some time before; it was the only sort of proposal that he had been tempted to make to Kedzie. He liked her immensely; she fascinated him; he loved to pet her and kiss her and talk baby talk to her; but she had never inflamed his emotions. Either it was the same with her, or she had purposely controlled herself and him from policy, or had been restrained by coldness or by a certain decency, of which she had a good deal, after all and in spite of all. Throughout their relations they had deceived Ferriday and other cynics. For all their indifference to appearances, they had behaved like a well-behaved pair of young betrothed Americans, with a complete freedom from chaperonage, and a considerable liberality of endearments, but no serious misdemeanor. Kedzie knew what he meant, but she wanted to hear him propose again. So she murmured: “How do you mean, take care of me?” “I mean--marry you, of course.” “Oh!” said Kedzie. And in a whirlwind of pride she twined her arms about his neck and clung to him with a desperate ardor. Dyckman said: “This isn't my first proposal, you know. You said you wanted time to think it over. Haven't you thought it over yet?” “Yes,” Kedzie sighed, but she said no more. “Well, what's the answer?” he urged. “Yes.” She whispered, torn between rapture and despair. Any woman might have blazed with pride at being asked to marry Jim Dyckman. The little villager was almost consumed like another Semele scorched by Jupiter's rash approach. In Dyckman's clasp Kedzie felt how lonely she had been. She wanted to be gathered in from the dangers of the world, from poverty and from work. She had not realized how tiny a thing she was, to be combating the big city all alone, until some one offered her shelter. People can usually be brave and grim in the presence of defeat and peril and hostility. It is the kind word, the sudden victory, the discovery of a friend that breaks one down. Even Kedzie wept. She wept all over Jim Dyckman's waistcoat, sat on his lap and swallowed throat-lumps and tears and tugged at his cuff-links with her little fingers.