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was over, afraid to look at him, she waited several moments for some response. None came. At last she said:

“I haven’t hurt you, have I, Tony?”

“No.”

“Then what do you think about it?”

“I don’t think it would—I know it wouldn’t be—satisfactory. . . . I can’t pretend.”

They went home then, a silent pair. Alison relinquished her last dream of making a baby of Tony, and reluctantly decided that things must be left to take their own course.

The next eight months flowed along uneventfully and pleasantly enough. Tony had found his note, and could wring some happiness out of the life as well as the constant comfort; but at last he woke one morning to find his peace gone from him—he knew that it was time for the road again. That was a hard thing to tell the Straines, so he charged straight at it.

“I know it sounds ungrateful, but I can’t live here. I’m not worth my salt to you. I must go off again.”

“My boy, you know———”

“Yes, Professor, you’ve told me it was your automobile! I don’t mean to be cheeky, but that debt was paid off long ago. . . . I must go. Please—please don’t say anything.”

He ended very quickly, for his voice shook. Alison felt a sharp physical pain in her heart—the Little Boy would go, and she could not hold him back—she would not if she could. And the one sure thing was that he would never return, that Little Boy.

They talked it over during the next few days, but there was little to arrange. Tony’s preparations were not elaborate, and the fortnight he allowed himself was ample time to get all he needed. So the last day came. He was to leave early in the morning, but the real farewell took place the night before, as it nearly always does. This night the