never wanted people—even you and me, whom he loved, Marjorie—he didn't want either of us as we have to be."
A few moments later he said, "So when you think about Bill out there at the road house, think of him not having to go on bucking life, fighting life with all his strength and will, and simply refusing to have life as—as it's got to be. You see, Marjorie, when you think it over that way, you see he had to come to something like that; nothing and no one could have stopped him. He was wrong, you see; he thought you were there and you weren't, and he wouldn't have it that you weren't there when he believed you were; so he fought them all and killed himself. And I guess, with him the way he was, there wasn't any other way out for Bill."
She said nothing to him; nor did she try to; for he had brought her comfort beyond any hope she could have held. And not once did he emptily reassure her by "it wasn't your fault"; or by "you've nothing to blame yourself for"; or by "you always acted for the best"; or by any of the other idle denials and protestations of such a time. He simply told her the truth as he felt it; and when again she cried, tears ran down his face, too. And thus, there together, he kissed her with a gentleness she had never known before, and she clung to him, for each needed the other so.
"He has to stay out there," Gregg told her then, "till this afternoon. There's an inquest, you see. I've wired his brother in Bay City who'll tell his parents; some one's sure to come down. They'll probably reply to Pearson Street; Dora'll get it. I'll have Bill brought there to-night."
She asked him about his own need of money for what
