Early the next morning Pete visited Kate in prison. He had something to say to her, something to ask; but he intended to keep back his own feelings, to bear himself bravely, to sustain the poor girl's courage. The light was cold and ashen within the prison walls, and as he followed the sergeant into the cell, he could not help but think of Kate as he had first known her, so bright, so merry, so full of life and gaiety. He found her now doubled up on a settle by a newly-kindled fire in the sergeant's own apartment. She lifted her head, with a terrified look, as he entered, and she saw his hollow cheeks and deep eyes and ragged beard.

“I'm not coming to trouble you,” he said. “I've forgiven him, and I'm forgiving you, too.”

“You are very good,” she answered nervously.

“Good?” He gave a crack of bitter laughter. “I meant to kill him—that's how good I am. And it's the same as if all the devils out of hell had been at me the night through to do it still. Maybe I hadn't much to forgive. I'm like a bat in the light—I'm not knowing where I am ezactly. Daresay the people will laugh at me when they're getting to know. Wouldn't trust, but they'll think me a poor-spirited cur, anyway. Let them—there's never much pity for the dog that's licked.”

His voice shook, although so hard and so husky. “That's not what I came to say, though. You'll be laving this place soon, and I'm wanting to ask—I'm wanting to know——”

She had covered her face, and now she said through her hands, “Do as you like with me, Pete. You are my husband, and I must obey.”

He looked down at her for a moment. “But you cannot love me?”

“I have deceived you, and whatever you tell me to do I will do it.”

“But you cannot love me?”

“I'll be a good wife for the future* Pete—I will, indeed, indeed I will.”

“But you cannot love me?”

She began to cry. “That's enough,” he said. “I'll not force you.”

“You are very good,” she said again.

He laughed more bitterly than before. “Dou yo think I'm wanting your body while another man has your heart? That's a game I've played about long enough, I'm thinking. Good? Not me, missis.”

His eyes, which had been fixed on the fire, wandered to his wife, and then his lips quivered and his manner changed.

“I'm hard—I'll cut it short. Fact is, I've detarmined to do something, but I've a question to ask first. You've suffered since you left me, Kate. He has dragged you down a dale—but tell me, do you love him still?”

She shuddered and crept closer to the wall.

“Don't be freckened. It's a woman's way to love the man that's done wrong by her. Being good to her is nothing—sarvice is nothing—kindness is nothing. Maybe there's some ones that cry shame on her for that—but not me. Giving herself, body and soul, and thinking nothing what she gets for it—that's the glory of a woman when she cares for anybody. Spake up, Kate—do you love him in spite of all?”

The answer came in a whisper that was like a breath—“Yes.”

“That'll do,” said Pete.

He pressed his hand against the place of his old wound. “I might have known you could never care for me—I might have known that,” he said with difficulty. “But don't think I can't stand my rackups, as the saying is. I know my course now—I know my job.”

She was sobbing into her hands, and he was breathing fast and loud.

“One word more—only one—about the child.”

“Little Katherine!”

“Have I a right to her?”

She gasped audibly, but did not answer, and he tried a second time.

“Does she belong to me, Kate?”

Her confusion increased. He tried a third time, speaking more gently than before.

“If I should lave the island, Kate, could I—must I—may I take the child along with me?”

At that her fear got the better of her shame, and she cried, “Don't take her away. Oh, don't, don't!”

“Ah!”

He pressed his hand hard at his side again.

“But maybe that's only mother's love, and what mother——”

He broke off and then began once more, in a voice so low that it was scarcely to be heard. “Tell me, when the time comes—and it will come, Kate, have no fear about that——”

He was breaking down, he was struggling hard. “When the time comes for himself and you to be together, will you be afraid to have the little one with you—will it seem wrong, Kate—you two and little Katherine—one household—one family—no?—n—o?”

“No.”

“That's enough.”

The words seemed to come out of the depths of his throat. “I've nothing more to think about. He must think of all the rest.”

“And you, Pete?”

“What matter about me? D'ye think there's anything worse coming? D'ye think I'm caring what I ate, and what I drink, and what becomes of me?”

He was laughing again, and her sobs broke out afresh.

“God is good,” he said more quietly. “He'll take care of the likes of me.”

His motionless eyes were on the crackling fire, and he stood in the light that flashed from it with a face like stone. “I've no child now,” he muttered, as though speaking to himself.

She slid to her knees at his feet, took the hand that hung by his side and began to cover it with kisses. “Forgive me,” she said; “I have been very weak and very guilty.”

“What's the use of talking like that?” he answered. “What's past is past,” and he drew his hand away. “No child now, no child now,” he muttered again, as though his dispair cried out to God.

He was feeling like a man wrecked in mid-ocean. A spar came floating towards him. It was all he could lay hold of from the foundering ship, in which he had sailed, and sung, and laughed, and slept. He had thought to save his life by it, but another man was clinging to it, and he had to drop it and go down.

She could not look into his face again; she could not touch his hand; she could not ask for his forgiveness. He stood over her for a moment without speaking, and then, with his hollow cheeks, and deep eyes, and ragged heard, he went away in the morning sunlight.