"But you must know," with a momentary impatience. "Surely you don't intend to remain here in Paris."

"I don't know that, either. I haven't considered what I shall do. It depends--that is--"

I did not finish the sentence. I had said more than I intended and it was high time I stopped. But I had said too much, as it was. She asked more questions.

"Upon what does it depend?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing. I did not mean that it depended upon anything in particular. I--"

"You must have meant something. Tell me--answer me truthfully, please: Does it depend upon me?"

Of course that was just what it did depend upon. And suddenly I determined to tell her so.

"Frances," I demanded, "are you still there--at that place?"

"At L'Abbaye. Yes."

"You sing there every night?"

"Yes."

"Why do you do it? You know--"

"I know everything. But you know, too. I told you I sang there because I must earn my living in some way and that seems to be the only place where I can earn it. They pay me well there, and the people--the proprietors--are considerate and kind, in their way."

"But it isn't a fit place for you. And you don't like it; I know you don't."

"No," quietly. "I don't like it."

"Then don't do it. Give it up."

"If I give it up what shall I do?"

"You know. Come back with us and live with us as you did before. I want you; Hephzy is crazy to have you. We--she has missed you dreadfully. She grieves for you and worries about you. We offer you a home and--"

She interrupted. "Please don't," she said. "I have told you that that is impossible. It is. I shall never go back to Mayberry."

"But why? Your aunt--"

"Don't! My aunt is very kind--she has been so kind that I cannot bear to speak of her. Her kindness and--and yours are the few pleasant memories that I have--of this last dreadful year. To please you both I would do anything--anything--except--"

"Don't make any exceptions. Come with us. If not to Mayberry, then somewhere else. Come to America with us."

"No."

"Frances--"

"Don't! My mind is made up. Please don't speak of that again."

Again I realized the finality in her tone. The same finality was in mine as I answered.

"Then I shall stay here," I declared. "I shall not leave you alone, without friends or a protector of any kind, to sing night after night in that place. I shall not do it. I shall stay here as long as you do."

She was silent. I wondered what was coming next. I expected her to say, as she had said before, that I was forcing her to give up her one opportunity. I expected reproaches and was doggedly prepared to meet them. But she did not reproach me. She said nothing; instead she seemed to be thinking, to be making up her mind.

"Don't do it, Frances," I pleaded. "Don't sing there any longer. Give it up. You don't like the work; it isn't fit work for you. Give it up."

She rose from her chair and standing by the window looked out into the street. Suddenly she turned and looked at me.

"Would it please you if I gave up singing at L'Abbaye?" she asked quietly. "You know it would."

"And if I did would you and Miss Cahoon go back to England--at once?"

Here was another question, one that I found very hard to answer. I tried to temporize.

"We want you to come with us," I said, earnestly. "We want you.

Hephzy--"

"Oh, don't, don't, don't! Why will you persist? Can't you understand that you hurt me? I am trying to believe I have some self-respect left, even after all that has happened. And you--What CAN you think of me! No, I tell you! NO!"

"But for Hephzy's sake. She is your only relative."

She looked at me oddly. And when she spoke her answer surprised me.

"You are mistaken," she said. "I have other--relatives. Good-by, Mr.

Knowles."

She was on her way to the door.

"But, Frances," I cried, "you are not going. Wait. Hephzy will be here any moment. Don't go."

She shook her head.

"I must go," she said. At the door she turned and looked back.

"Good-by," she said, again. "Good-by, Kent."

She had gone and when I reached the door she had turned the corner of the corridor.

When Hephzy came I told her of the visit and what had taken place.

"That's queer," said Hephzy. "I can't think what she meant. I don't know of any other relatives she's got except Strickland Morley's tribe. And they threw him overboard long, long ago. I can't understand who she meant; can you, Hosy?"

I had been thinking.

"Wasn't there someone else--some English cousins of hers with whom she lived for a time after her father's death? Didn't she tell you about them?"

Hephzy nodded vigorously. "That's so," she declared. "There was. And she did live with 'em, too. She never told me their names or where they lived, but I know she despised and hated 'em. She gave me to understand that. And she ran away from 'em, too, just as she did from us. I don't see why she should have meant them. I don't believe she did. Perhaps she'll tell us more next time she comes. That'll be tomorrow, most likely."