"Greg," she said, "do you know what I'd like to be? I'd like to be

far away from cities and people, a fisherman's wife on an ocean

shore, with a baby coming every year, and just the delicious sea

to watch! I could be a good wife, Greg, if anybody really--loved

me!"

Laughing as she looked at him, she did not disguise the fact that

tears misted her lashes. Warren Gregory felt himself stirred as he

had not been before in his life.

"Well," he said, with an unsteady laugh, "you could be anything!

With you for his wife, what couldn't a man do!"

Hardly conscious of what he did or said, he got to his feet, and

she stood, too, smiling up at him. Both were breathing hard.

"To think," he said, with a sort of repressed violence, "that you,

of all women, should be Clarence Breckenridge's wife!"

"Not long!" she answered, in a whisper.

"You mean that you are really going to leave him, Rachael?"

"I mean that I must, Greg, if I am not to go mad!"

"And where will you go?" she asked.

"Oh--to Vera, to Elinor." She paused, frowning. "Or away by

myself," she decided suddenly. "Away from them all!"

"Rachael," he said quickly, "will you come to my mother?"

Rachael smiled. "To your mother!"

He read her incredulity in her voice.

"But she loves you," he said eagerly. "And she'd be--we'd both be

so proud to show people--to prove--that we knew where the right

lay!"

"My dear Don Quixote," she answered affectionately, "I love you

for asking me! But I will be better alone. I must think, and plan.

I've made a mess of my life so far, Greg; I must take the next

step carefully!"

He was clinging to her hands as she stood, in all her grave

beauty, before him.

"If I hadn't been such a bat, Rachael, all those eleven years

ago!" he said, daringly, breathlessly.

"Have we known each other so long, Greg?"

"Ever since that first visit of yours with little Persis Pomeroy!

And I remember you so well, Rachael. I remember that Bobby

Governeur was enslaved!"

"Dear old Bobby! But I don't remember you, Greg!"

"Because I was thirty then, my dear, and you were seventeen! I was

just home from four years' work in Germany; I was afraid of girls

your age!"

"Afraid--of ME?" The three words were like a caress, like holding

her in his arms.

"I'm afraid so!" he said, not quite steadily. "I'm afraid I've

always liked you too well. I--I CARE--that you're unhappy, that

you're unkindly treated. I--I--wish I could do something,

Rachael."




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