"What is it you want--of me?"
"To tell me--what Harrie must do." In Selwyn's face was the
whiteness of death, but his voice was quiet. "I did not know, until
David Guard told me, that there was a child, and that Harrie was its
father, and that because of the child Etta would not go away as I had
tried to make her. I did not know she had no father or brother to
see that, as far as possible, her wrong is righted. I want you to
forget that Harrie is my brother and remember the girl, and tell
me--what he must do."
From the chair in which Harrie sat came a lurching movement, and I
saw his body bend forward, saw his elbows on his knees, his face
buried in his hands, and then I heard a sudden sob, a soft, little
cry that stabbed, and Etta was on the floor beside him, crouching at
his feet, holding his hands to her heart, and uttering broken,
foolish words and begging him to speak to her, to tell her that he
would marry her--that he would marry her and take her away.
"Harrie--oh, Harrie!" Faintly we could hear the words that came
stumblingly. "Could we be married, Harrie, and go away, oh, far
away, where nobody knows? I will work for you--live for you--die for
you, if need be, Harrie! We could be happy.
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