"If only I were of his class, or he of mine!" And Gabriel, what of him?
As he swung north and westward, day by day, on the long hike toward Niagara, the memory of the girl went with him, and hour by hour bore him company.
He was not forgetting.

Could he forget?
Strive as he might, to thrust her out of his heart and soul, she still indwelt there.
Not all his philosophy, nor all his realization that this woman he had saved, this woman who had lain in his two arms and mingled her breath with his, belonged to another and an alien class, could banish her.
And as he strode along, swinging his knotted stick at the daisies and pondering on all that might have been and now could never be, a sudden, passionate longing burst over him, as a long sea-roller, hurled against a cliff, flings upward in vast tourbillions of spume.
Raising his face to the summer sky, his bare head high with emotion and his eyes wide with the thought of strange possibilities that shook and intoxicated him, he cried: "Oh--would God she were an orphan and an outcast! Would God she had no penny in this world to call her own!".