Mary Harrison was reeling like a drunken person; she clutched at a chair. "Jim," she gasped, "what's to become of me?"  
"You know that I'll always see that you are taken care of," he began.
 
"I don't—I don't mean that," she cried. "But, oh—I love you—I can't do without you! Where in Heaven's name am I to go?" and she flung herself upon him with a passionate cry. "What am I to do?" she cried, again and again. "How can I bear it?"
 
He strove to calm her. "Listen," he whispered, "don't take it so hard. Perhaps you may forget me—please don't act like that."
 
She was shuddering convulsively. "No, no!" she cried. "It would kill me—it would!" And then suddenly she leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing. "I'll kill that[102] woman!" she panted. "That's what I'll do!"
 
The man drew her to him again, striving to calm her. "No, no, Mary," he said. "That will only make it worse for me. If you love me, you must give me up. That is the only way."
 
She sat there, white and trembling, moaning to herself. She smoothed the beautiful hair back from her forehead, and sat staring in front of her with a dazed expression.
 
"Give you up!" she whispered hoarsely. "Give you up!"
 
Her companion felt extremely uncomfortable; naturally, a good-hearted man does not like to make a woman suffer, especially a woman whom he still loves. He had made up his mind, however, and he meant to carry it through. He let her lean on his bosom and sob away her grief.
 
"And can't I ever see you—even just a little bit?" she moaned.
 
"No," he said firmly. "Can you not see, Mary, that there is no place in the[103] world where I could keep you that that woman could not track me to? She has found me out and tracked me here already and she could ruin me, Mary, drive me to kill myself."
 
The other shuddered. "No," she said, "you must not do that. You are right, and I must make the sacrifice. I will go—I can bear it, I guess. But oh, Jim, I never really loved any one but you, and I never shall."
 
"I shall never forget you," said he. "And I will give you all you need, Mary,—you won't have to worry about money." But the girl scarcely heard him; she was not thinking about money.
 
"And where will you go?" he asked finally.
 
"I don't know," said she. "I have no home. Where should I go? I suppose I'll go back where I came from—back to Albany."
 
Robert van Rensselaer looked at her; the name Albany brought back a sudden memory to him. "Well, I declare," he[104] said, "you did not tell me you came from Albany." He hesitated a moment and then went on, "Perhaps, maybe, you know a girl there—But I don't know her name," he added, with a slight laugh.
 
"Then I'm afraid I couldn't tell you," said the other, answering his smile. "But I knew very few people there. I never knew any one at all until after my mother went away some years ago."
 
"Went away?" asked the other. "I thought you said she died."
 
"She must have died, for she was very ill," said the girl. "But I don't know what became of her—she never came back."
 
The man was gazing at her in surprise. "Never came back?" he echoed; and then he added, "What was your mother's name?"
 
"Helen," said she; ............