Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908. L. M. Montgomery

most awful realization of the sacrilege I was going to commit.

      I forgot everything except that I loved Jack Willoughby, and that I could never, never marry anybody in the world except him.

      Then I pulled my hands away and burst into hysterical, undignified tears.

      "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Sinclair. "I did not mean to startle you. Have I been too abrupt? Surely you must have known—you must have expected—"

      "Yes—yes—I knew," I cried miserably, "and I intended right up to this very minute to marry you. I'm so sorry—but I can't—I can't."

      "I don't understand," he said in a bewildered tone. "If you expected it, then why—why—don't you care for me?"

      "No, that's just it," I sobbed. "I don't love you at all—and I do love somebody else. But he is poor, and I hate poverty. So I refused him, and I meant to marry you just because you are rich."

      Such a pained look came over his face. "I did not think this of you," he said in a low tone.

      "Oh, I know I have acted shamefully," I said. "You can't think any worse of me than I do of myself. How you must despise me!"

      "No," he said, with a grim smile, "if I did it would be easier for me. I might not love you then. Don't distress yourself, Katherine. I do not deny that I feel greatly hurt and disappointed, but I am glad you have been true to yourself at last. Don't cry, dear."

      "You're very good," I answered disconsolately, "but all the same the fact remains that I have behaved disgracefully to you, and I know you think so. Oh, Mr. Sinclair, please, please, go away. I feel so miserably ashamed of myself that I cannot look you in the face."

      "I am going, dear," he said gently. "I know all this must be very painful to you, but it is not easy for me, either."

      "Can you forgive me?" I said wistfully.

      "Yes, my dear, completely. Do not let yourself be unhappy over this. Remember that I will always be your friend. Goodbye."

      He held out his hand and gave mine an earnest clasp. Then he went away.

      I remained in the drawing-room, partly because I wanted to finish out my cry, and partly because, miserable coward that I was, I didn't dare face Alicia. Finally she came in, her face wreathed with anticipatory smiles. But when her eyes fell on my forlorn, crumpled self she fairly jumped.

      "Katherine, what is the matter?" she asked sharply. "Didn't Mr. Sinclair—"

      "Yes, he did," I said desperately. "And I've refused him. There now, Alicia!"

      Then I waited for the storm to burst. It didn't all at once. The shock was too great, and at first quite paralyzed my half-sister.

      "Katherine," she gasped, "are you crazy? Have you lost your senses?"

      "No, I've just come to them. It's true enough, Alicia. You can scold all you like. I know I deserve it, and I won't flinch. I did really intend to take him, but when it came to the point I couldn't. I didn't love him."

      Then, indeed, the storm burst. I never saw Alicia so angry before, and I never got so roundly abused. But even Alicia has her limits, and at last she grew calmer.

      "You have behaved disgracefully," she concluded. "I am disgusted with you. You have encouraged Gus Sinclair markedly right along, and now you throw him over like this. I never dreamed that you were capable of such unwomanly behaviour."

      "That's a hard word, Alicia," I protested feebly.

      She dealt me a withering glance. "It does not begin to be as hard as your shameful conduct merits. To think of losing a fortune like that for the sake of sentimental folly! I didn't think you were such a consummate fool."

      "I suppose you absorbed all the sense of our family," I said drearily. "There now, Alicia, do leave me alone. I'm down in the very depths already."

      "What do you mean to do now?" said Alicia scornfully. "Go back to Valleyfield and marry that starving country doctor of yours, I suppose?"

      I flared up then; Alicia might abuse me all she liked, but I wasn't going to hear a word against Jack.

      "Yes, I will, if he'll have me," I said, and I marched out of the room and upstairs, with my head very high.

      Of course I decided to leave Montreal as soon as I could. But I couldn't get away within a week, and it was a very unpleasant one. Alicia treated me with icy indifference, and I knew I should never be reinstated in her good graces.

      To my surprise, Roger took my part. "Let the girl alone," he told Alicia. "If she doesn't love Sinclair, she was right in refusing him. I, for one, am glad that she has got enough truth and womanliness in her to keep her from selling herself."

      Then he came to the library where I was moping, and laid his hand on my head.

      "Little girl," he said earnestly, "no matter what anyone says to you, never marry a man for his money or for any other reason on earth except because you love him."

      This comforted me greatly, and I did not cry myself to sleep that night as usual.

      At last I got away. I had telegraphed to Jack: "Am coming home Wednesday; meet me at train," and I knew he would be there. How I longed to see him again—dear, old, badly treated Jack.

      I got to Valleyfield just at dusk. It was a rainy evening, and everything was slush and fog and gloom. But away up I saw the home light at Thrush Hill, and Jack was waiting for me on the platform.

      "Oh, Jack!" I said, clinging to him, regardless of appearances. "Oh, I'm so glad to be back."

      "That's right, Kitty. I knew you wouldn't forget us. How well you are looking!"

      "I suppose I ought to be looking wretched," I said penitently. "I've been behaving very badly, Jack. Wait till we get away from the crowd and I'll tell you all about it."

      And I did.

      I didn't gloss over anything, but just confessed the whole truth. Jack heard me through in silence, and then he kissed me.

      "Can you forgive me, Jack, and take me back?" I whispered, cuddling up to him.

      And he said—but, on second thought, I will not write down what he said.

      We are to be married in June.

A Substitute JournalistToC

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      Clifford Baxter came into the sitting-room where Patty was darning stockings and reading a book at the same time. Patty could do things like that. The stockings were well darned too, and Patty understood and remembered what she read.

      Clifford flung himself into a chair with a sigh of weariness. "Tired?" queried Patty sympathetically.

      "Yes, rather. I've been tramping about the wharves all day gathering longshore items. But, Patty, I've got a chance at last. Tonight as I was leaving the office Mr. Harmer gave me a real assignment for tomorrow—two of them in fact, but only one of importance. I'm to go and interview Mr. Keefe on this new railroad bill that's up before the legislature. He's in town, visiting his old college friend, Mr. Reid, and he's quite big game. I wouldn't have had the assignment, of course, if there'd been anyone else to send, but most of the staff will be away all day tomorrow to see about that mine explosion at Midbury or the teamsters' strike at Bainsville, and I'm the only one available. Harmer gave me a pretty broad hint that it was my chance to win my spurs, and that if I worked up a good article out of it I'd stand a fair show of being taken on permanently next month when Alsop leaves. There'll be a shuffle all round then, you know. Everybody on the staff will be pushed up a peg, and that will leave a vacant space at the foot."

      Patty threw