"What is it, dear?"

"We can't go, Frank."

"We can't go? What are ye sayin', dear?"

"We can't go," she repeated, her body crumpled up limply in the
chair.

"And why not, Angela? I know I can't take ye back as I brought ye
here, dear, if that's what ye mane. The luck's been against me. It's
been cruel hard against me. An' that thought is tearin' at me heart
this minnit."

"It isn't THAT, Frank," she said, faintly.

"Then what is it? "

"Oh," she cried, "I hoped it would be so different--so very
different."

"What did ye think would be so different, dear? Our going back? Is
that what's throublin' ye?"

"No, Frank. Not that. I don't care how we go back so long as you are
with me." He pressed her hand. In a moment she went on: "But we
can't go. We can't go. Oh, my dear, my dear, can't you guess? Can't
you think?" She looked imploringly into his eyes.

A new wonder came into his. Could it be true? Could it? He took both