“In bitter cold weather,” she said reproachfully.

“He was pretty blue that day, wasn’t he?  Dead sore on the game.  Money all blown in, overcoat up the spout, nothing ahead, and a whole year of—­of damned foolishness behind.  Excuse me, but that’s what it was.  Well, he blew in that day and—­he walked over to where you were sitting, you darling little saint!”

“No, no,” murmured Alice, “not a saint, only a poor girl who saw you were unhappy and—­and was sorry.”

Their eyes met tenderly, and for a moment neither spoke.  Then Kittredge went on unsteadily:  “Anyhow you were kind to me, and I opened up a little.  I told you a few things, and—­when I went away I felt more like a man.  I said to myself:  ’Lloyd Kittredge, if you’re any good you’ll cut out this thing that’s been raising hell with you’—­excuse me, but that’s what it was—­’and you’ll make a new start, right now.’  And I did it.  There’s a lot you don’t know, but you can bet all your rosaries and relics that I’ve made a fair fight since then.  I’ve worked and—­been decent and—­I did it all for you.”  His voice was vibrant now with passion; he caught her hand in his and repeated the words, leaning closer, so that she felt his warm breath on her cheek.  “All for you.  You know that, don’t you, Alice?”

What a moment for a girl whose whole soul was quivering with fondness!  What a proud, beautiful moment!  He loved her, he loved her!  Yet she drew her hand away and forced herself to say, as if reprovingly:  “You mustn’t do that!”

He looked at her in surprise, and then, with challenging directness:  “Why not?”

“Because I cannot be what you—­what you want me to be,” she answered, looking down.

“I want you to be my wife.”

“I know.”

“And—­and you refuse me?”

For a moment she did not speak.  Then slowly she nodded, as if pronouncing her own doom.

“Alice,” he cried, “look up here!  You don’t mean it.  Say it isn’t true.”

She lifted her eyes bravely and faced him.  “It is true, Lloyd; I can never be your wife.”

“But why?  Why?”

“I—­I cannot tell you,” she faltered.

He was about to speak impatiently, but before her evident distress he checked the words and asked gently:  “Is it something against me?”

“Oh, no!” she answered quickly.

“Sure?  Isn’t it something you’ve heard that I’ve done or—­or not done?  Don’t be afraid to hurt my feelings.  I’ll make a clean breast of it all, if you say so.  God knows I was a fool, but I’ve kept straight since I knew you, I’ll swear to that.”

“I believe you, dear.”

“You believe me, you call me ‘dear,’ you look at me out of those wonderful eyes as if you cared for me.”

“I do, I do,” she murmured.

[Illustration:  “‘Alice,’ he cried ...  ‘Say it isn’t true.’”]

“You care for me, and yet you turn me down,” he said bitterly.  “It reminds me of a verse I read,” and drawing a small volume from his pocket he turned the pages quickly.  “Ah, here it is,” and he marked some lines with a pencil.  “There!”