“What could I do? I was alone in the world, without friends or money or position. He happened to be at the railroad station. He saw how frightened I was, and he had loved me for a long time. He begged me to take mercy on him and on myself, and marry him. He offered me his protection; he said I should be his wife in name only until I learned to love him. And I was alone in the world, without friends or money--but I told you that once, didn't I?” Dyckman was thinking hard, aching hard. He mumbled, “What became of him?” “When he saw that I couldn't love him he took some money I had left from my earnings and abandoned me. I had a desperate struggle to get along, and then I got my chance in the moving pictures, and I met you there--and--learned what love is--too late--too late!” Dyckman broke in on her lyric grief, “What became of the man you married?” “He never came near me till awhile ago. He saw my pictures on the screen and thought I must be making a big lot of money. He came here and tried to sneak back into my good graces. He even tried to kiss me, and I nearly tore his eyes out.” “Why?” Jim asked. “Because I belong to nobody but you--at least, I did belong to nobody but you. But now you won't want me any more. I don't blame you for hating me. I hate myself. I've deceived you, and you'll never believe me again, or love me, or anything.” She wept ardently, for she was appalled by the magnitude of her deception, now that it stood exposed. She had no idea of the magnitude of Dyckman's chivalry. She slipped to the floor and laid her head on his knee. It was Dyckman's nature to respond at once to any appeal to his sympathy or his courtesy. Automatically his heart warmed toward human distress. He felt a deeper interest in Kedzie than before, because she threw herself on his mercy as never before. His hand went out to her head and fell upon her hair with a kind of apostolic benediction. He poured, as it were, an ointment of absolution and acceptance upon her curls. She felt in his very fingers so much reassurance that she was encouraged to unburden herself altogether of her hoard of secrets. “There's one more awful thing you'll never forgive me for, Jim. I want to tell you that, and then you'll know all the worst of me. My father and mother came to town to-day, and--and that was my mother who said she was the janitor's wife.” “Why did she do that?” said Jim. “I had been telling them how much I loved you, and poor dear mother was afraid you might be scared away if you knew how poor my people are.” “What kind of a ghastly snob do they take me for?” Jim growled.