"What you want is a rawhide," said McCloud, eying young Byram.

"I guess I do," said Byram, "an' I'm a-goin' to buy one, too—unless you pay that there road-tax."

"I'll be at home when you call," replied McCloud, quietly, picking up his rifle, and pocketing his cartridges.

Somebody near the stove said, "Go fur him!" to Byram, and the young road-master glared at McCloud.

"He was a-sparkin' Ellie Elton," added Tansey, grinning; "yew owe him a few for that, too, Byram."

Byram turned white, but made no movement. McCloud laughed.

"Wait," said the game-warden, sitting behind the stove; "jest wait awhile; that's all. No man can fire me into a ditch full o' stinging nettles an' live to larf no pizened larf at me!"

"Dingman," said McCloud, contemptuously, "you're like the rest of them here in Foxville—all foxes who run to earth when they smell a Winchester."

He flung his rifle carelessly into the hollow of his left arm; the muzzle was in line with the game-warden, and that official promptly moved out of range, upsetting his chair in his haste.

"Quit that!" bawled the storekeeper, from behind his counter.

"Quit what—eh?" demanded McCloud. "Here, you old rat, give me the whiskey bottle! Quick! What? Money to pay? Trot out that grog or I'll shoot your lamps out!"

"He's been a-drinkin' again," whispered the game-warden. "Fur God's sake, give him that bottle, somebody!"

But as the bottle was pushed across the counter, McCloud swung his rifle-butt and knocked the bottle into slivers. "Drinks for the crowd!" he said, with an ugly laugh. "Get down and lap it up off the floor, you fox cubs!"

Then, pushing the fly-screen door open with one elbow, he sauntered out into the moonlight, careless who might follow him, although now that he had insulted and defied the entire town there were men behind who would have done him a mischief if they had dared believe him off his guard.

He walked moodily on in the moonlight, disdaining to either listen or glance behind him. There was a stoop to his shoulders now, a loose carriage which sometimes marks a man whose last shred of self-respect has gone, leaving him nothing but the naked virtues and vices with which he was born. McCloud's vices were many, though some of them lay dormant; his virtues, if they were virtues, could be counted in a breath—a natural courage, and a generous heart, paralyzed and inactive under a load of despair and a deep resentment against everybody and everything. He hated the fortunate and the unfortunate alike; he despised his neighbors, he despised himself. His inertia had given place to a fierce restlessness; he felt a sudden and curious desire for a physical struggle with a strong antagonist—like young Byram.

All at once the misery of his poverty arose up before him. It was not unendurable simply because he was obliged to endure it.

The thought of his hopeless poverty stupefied him at first, then rage followed. Poverty was an antagonist—like young Byram—a powerful one. How he hated it! How he hated Byram! Why? And, as he walked there, shuffling up the dust in the moonlight, he thought, for the first time in his life, that if poverty were only a breathing creature he would strangle it with his naked hands. But logic carried him no further; he began to brood again, remembering Tansey's insults and the white anger of young Byram, and the threats from the dim group around the stove. If they molested him they would remember it. He would neither pay taxes nor work for them.

Then he thought of the path-master, reddening as he remembered Tansey's accusation. He shrugged his shoulders and straightened up, dismissing her from his mind, but she returned, only to be again dismissed with an effort.

When for the third time the memory of the little path-master returned, he glanced up as though he could see her in the flesh standing in the road before his house. She was there—in the flesh.

The moonlight silvered her hair, and her face was the face of a spirit; it quickened the sluggish blood in his veins to see her so in the moonlight.

She said: "I thought that if you knew I should be obliged to pay your road-tax if you do not, you would pay. Would you?"

A shadow glided across the moonlight; it was the collie dog, and it came and looked up into McCloud's shadowy eyes.

"Yes—I would," he said; "but I cannot."

His heart began to beat faster; a tide of wholesome blood stirred and flowed through his veins. It was the latent decency within him awaking.

"Little path-master," he said, "I am very poor; I have no money. But I will work out my taxes because you ask me."

He raised his head and looked at the spectral forest where dead pines towered, ghastly in the moon's beams. That morning he had cut the last wood on his own land; he had nothing left to sell but a patch of brambles and a hut which no one would buy.

"I guess I'm no good," he said; "I can't work."

"But what will you do?" she asked, with pitiful eyes raised.

"Do? Oh, what I have done. I can shoot partridges."

"Market-shooting is against the law," she said, faintly.

"The law!" he repeated; "it seems to me there is nothing but law in this God-forsaken hole!"

"Can't you live within the law? It is not difficult, is it?" she asked.

"It is difficult for me," he said, sullenly. The dogged brute in him was awaking in its turn. He was already sorry he had promised her to work out his taxes. Then he remembered the penalty. Clearly he would have to work, or she would be held responsible.

"If anybody would take an unskilled man," he began, "I—I would try to get something to do."

"Won't they?"

"No. I tried it—once."

"Only once?"

He gave a short laugh and stooped to pat the collie, saying, "Don't bother me, little path-master."

"No—I won't," she replied, slowly.

She went away in the moonlight, saying good-night and calling her collie, and he walked up the slope to the house, curiously at peace with himself and the dim world hidden in the shadows around.

He was not sleepy. As he had no candles, he sat down in the moonlight, idly balancing his rifle on his knees. From force of habit he loaded it, then rubbed the stock with the palm of his hand, eyes dreaming.

Into the tangled garden a whippoorwill flashed on noiseless wings, rested a moment, unseen, then broke out into husky, breathless calling. A minute later the whispering call came from the forest's edge, then farther away, almost inaudible in the thickening dusk.

And, as he sat there, thinking of the little path-master, he became aware of a man slinking along the moonlit road below. His heart stopped, then the pulses went bounding, and his fingers closed on his rifle.

There were other men in the moonlight now—he counted five—and he called out to them, demanding their business.

"You're our business," shouted back young Byram. "Git up an' dust out o' Foxville, you dirty loafer!"

"Better stay where you are," said McCloud, grimly.

Then old Tansey bawled: "Yew low cuss, git outer this here taown! Yew air meaner 'n pussley an' meaner 'n quack-root, an' we air bound tew run yew into them mountings, b' gosh!"

There was a silence, then the same voice: "Be yew calculatin' tew mosey, Dan McCloud?"

"You had better stay where you are," said McCloud; "I'm armed."

"Ye be?" replied a new voice; "then come aout o' that or we'll snake ye aout!"

Byram began moving towards the house, shot-gun raised.

"Stop!" cried McCloud, jumping to his feet.

But Byram came on, gun levelled, and McCloud retreated to his front door.

"Give it to him!" shouted the game-warden; "shoot his windows out!" There was a flash from the road and a load of buckshot crashed through the window overhead.

Before the echoes of the report died away, McCloud's voice was heard again, calmly warning them back.

Something in his voice arrested the general advance.

"I don't know why I don't kill you in your tracks, Byram," said McCloud; "I've wanted the excuse often enough. But now I've got it and I don't want it, somehow. Let me alone, I tell you."

"He's no good!" said the warden, distinctly. Byram crept through the picket fence and lay close, hugging his shot-gun.

"I tell you I intend to pay my taxes," cried McCloud, desperately. "Don't force me to shoot!"

The sullen rage was rising; he strove to crush it back, to think of the little path-master.

"For God's sake, go back!" he pleaded, hoarsely.

Suddenly Byram started running towards the house, and McCloud clapped his rifle to his cheek and fired. Four flashes from the road answered his shot, but Byram was down in the grass screaming, and McCloud had vanished into his house.

Charge after charge of buckshot tore through the flimsy clapboards; the moonlight was brightened by pale flashes, and the timbered hills echoed the cracking shots.

After a while no more shots were fired, and presently a voice broke out in the stillness:

"Be yew layin' low, or be yew dead, Dan McCloud?"

There was no answer.

"Or be yew playin' foxy possum," continued the voice, with nasal rising inflection.

Byram began to groan and crawl towards the road.

"Let him alone," he moaned; "let him alone. He's got grit, if he hain't got nothin' else."

"Air yew done for?" demanded Tansey, soberly.

"No, no," groaned Byram, "I'm jest winged. He done it, an' he was right. Didn't he say he'd pay his taxes? He's plumb right. Let him alone, or he'll come out an' murder us all!"

Byram's voice ceased; Tansey mounted the dark slope, peering among the brambles, treading carefully.

"Whar be ye, Byram?" he bawled.

But it was ten minutes before he found the young man, quite dead, in the long grass.

With an oath Tansey flung up his gun and drove a charge of buckshot crashing through the front door. The door quivered; the last echoes of the shot died out; silence followed.

Then the shattered door swung open slowly, and McCloud reeled out, still clutching his rifle. He tried to raise it; he could not, and it fell clattering. Tansey covered him with his shot-gun, cursing him fiercely. "Up with them hands o' yourn!" he snarled; but McCloud only muttered and began to rock and sway in the doorway.

Tansey came up to him, shot-gun in hand. "Yew hev done fur Byram," he said; "yew air bound to set in the chair for this."

McCloud, leaning against the sill, looked at him with heavy eyes.

"It's well enough for you," he muttered; "you are only a savage; but Byram went to college—and so did I—and we are nothing but savages like you, after all—nothing but savages—"

He collapsed and slid to the ground, lying hunched up across the threshold.

"I want to see the path-master!" he cried, sharply.

A shadow fell across the shot riddled door snow-white in the moonshine.

"She's here," said the game-warden, soberly.

But McCloud had started talking and muttering to himself.

Towards midnight the whippoorwill began a breathless calling from the garden.

McCloud opened his eyes.

"Who is that?" he asked, irritably.

"He's looney," whispered Tansey; "he gabbles to hisself."

The little path-master knelt beside him. He stared at her stonily.

"It is I," she whispered.

"Is it you, little path-master?" he said, in an altered voice. Then something came into his filmy eyes which she knew was a smile.

"I wanted to tell you," he began, "I will work out my taxes—somewhere—for you—"

The path-master hid her white face in her hands. Presently the collie dog came and laid his head on her shoulder.



IN NAUVOO

The long drought ended with a cloud-burst in the western mountains, which tore a new slide down the flank of Lynx Peak and scarred the Gilded Dome from summit to base. Then storm followed storm, bursting through the mountain-notch and sweeping the river into the meadows, where the haycocks were already afloat, and the gaunt mountain cattle floundered bellowing.

The stage from White Lake arrived at noon with the mail, and the driver walked into the post-office and slammed the soaking mail-sack on the floor.

"Gracious!" said the little postmistress.

"Yes'm," said the stage-driver, irrelevantly; "them letters is wetter an' I'm madder 'n a swimmin' shanghai! Upsot? Yes'm—in Snow Brook. Road's awash, meadders is flooded, an' the water's a-swashin' an' a-sloshin' in them there galoshes." He waved one foot about carelessly, scattering muddy spray, then balanced himself alternately on heels and toes to hear the water wheeze in his drenched boots.

"There must be a hole in the mail-pouch," said the postmistress, in gentle distress.

There certainly was. The letters were soaked; the wrappers on newspaper and parcel had become detached; the interior of the government's mail-pouch resembled the preliminary stages of a paper-pulp vat. But the postmistress worked so diligently among the debris that by one o'clock she had sorted and placed in separate numbered boxes every letter, newspaper, and parcel—save one.

That one was a letter directed to

"James Helm, Esq. "Nauvoo, via White Lake."

and it was so wet and the gum that sealed it was so nearly dissolved that the postmistress decided to place it between blotters, pile two volumes of government agricultural reports on it, and leave it until dry.

One by one the population of Nauvoo came dripping into the post-office for the mail, then slopped out into the storm again, umbrellas couched in the teeth of the wind. But James Helm did not come for his letter.

The postmistress sat alone in her office and looked out into her garden. It was a very wet garden; the hollyhocks still raised their flowered spikes in the air; the nasturtiums, the verbenas, and the pansies were beaten down and lying prone in muddy puddles. She wondered whether they would ever raise their heads again—those delicate flower faces that she knew so well, her only friends in Nauvoo.

Through the long drought she had tended them, ministering to their thirst, protecting them from their enemies the weeds, and from the great, fuzzy, brown-and-yellow caterpillars that travelled over the fences, guided by instinct and a raging appetite. Now each frail flower had laid its slender length along the earth, and the little postmistress watched them wistfully from her rain-stained window.

She had expected to part with her flowers; she was going away forever in a few days—somewhere—she was not yet quite certain where. But now that her flowers lay prone, bruised and broken, the idea of leaving them behind her distressed her sorely.

She picked up her crutch and walked to the door. It was no use; the rain warned her back. She sat down again by the window to watch her wounded flowers.

There was something else that distressed her too, although the paradox of parting from a person she had never met ought to have appealed to her sense of humor. But she did not think of that; never, since she had been postmistress in Nauvoo, had she spoken one word to James Helm, nor had he ever spoken to her. He had a key to his letter-box; he always came towards evening.

It was exactly a year ago to-day that Helm came to Nauvoo—a silent, pallid young fellow with unresponsive eyes and the bearing of a gentleman. He was cordially detested in Nauvoo. For a year she had watched him enter the post-office, unlock his letter-box, swing on his heel and walk away, with never a glance at her nor a sign of recognition to any of the village people who might be there. She heard people exchange uncomplimentary opinions concerning him; she heard him sneered at, denounced, slandered.

Naturally, being young and lonely and quite free from malice towards anybody, she had time to construct a romance around Helm—a very innocent romance of well-worn pattern and on most unoriginal lines. Into this romance she sometimes conducted herself, blushing secretly at her mental indiscretion, which indiscretion so worried her that she dared not even look at Helm that evening when he came for his mail. She was a grave, gentle little thing—a child still whose childhood had been a tragedy and whose womanhood promised only that shadow of happiness called contentment which comes from a blameless life and a nature which accepts sorrow without resentment.

Thinking of Helm as she sat there by the window, she heard the office clock striking five. Five was Helm's usual hour, so she hid her crutch. It was her one vanity—that he should not know that she was lame.

She rose and lifted the two volumes of agricultural reports from the blotters where Helm's letter lay, then she carefully raised one blotter. To her dismay half of the envelope stuck to the blotting-paper, leaving the contents of the letter open to her view.

On the half-envelope lay an object apparently so peculiarly terrifying that the little postmistress caught her breath and turned quite white at sight of it. And yet it was only a square bit of paper, perfectly blank save for half a dozen thread-like lines scattered through its texture.

For a long while the postmistress stood staring at the half-envelope and the bit of blank paper. Then with trembling fingers she lighted a lamp and held the little piece of paper over the chimney—carefully. When the paper was warm she raised it up to the light and read the scrawl that the sympathetic ink revealed:

"I send you a sample of the latest style fibre. Look out for the new postmaster at Nauvoo. He's a secret-service spy, and he's been sent to see what you are doing. This is the last letter I dare send you by mail."

There was no signature to the message, but a signature was not necessary to tell the postmistress who had written the letter. With set lips and tearless eyes she watched the writing fade slowly on the paper; and when again the paper was blank she sank down by the window, laying her head in her arms.

A few moments later Helm came in wrapped in a shining wet mackintosh. He glanced at his box, saw it was empty, wheeled squarely on his heels, and walked out.

Towards sunset the rain dissolved to mist; a trail of vapor which marked the course of an unseen brook floated high among the hemlocks. There was no wind; the feathery tips of the pines, powdered with rain-spray, rose motionless in the still air. Suddenly the sun's red search-light played through the forest; long, warm rays fell across wet moss, rain-drenched ferns dripped, the swamp steamed. In the east the thunder still boomed, and faint lightning flashed under the smother of sombre clouds; but the storm had rolled off among the mountains, and already a white-throated sparrow was calling from the edge of the clearing. It promised to be a calm evening in Nauvoo.

Meanwhile, Helm walked on down the muddy road, avoiding the puddles which the sun turned into pools of liquid flame. He heard the catbirds mewing in the alders; he heard the evening carol of the robin—that sweet, sleepy, thrushlike warble which always promises a melody that never follows; he picked a spray of rain-drenched hemlock as he passed, crushing it in his firm, pale fingers to inhale the fragrance. Now in the glowing evening the bull-bats were soaring and tumbling, and the tree-frogs trilled from the darkling pastures.

Around the bend in the road his house stood all alone, a small, single-storied cottage in a tangled garden. He passed in at his gate, but instead of unlocking the front door he began to examine the house as though he had never before seen it; he scrutinized every window, he made a cautious, silent tour of the building, returning to stare again at the front door.

The door was locked; he never left the house without locking it, and he never returned without approaching the house in alert silence, as though it might conceal an enemy.

There was no sound of his footfalls as he mounted the steps; the next instant he was inside the house, his back against the closed door—listening. As usual, he heard nothing except the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house, and as usual he slipped his revolver back into the side pocket of his coat and fitted a key into the door on his left. The room was pitch dark; he lighted a candle and held it up, shading his eyes with a steady hand.

There was a table, a printing-press, and one chair in the room; the table was littered with engraver's tools, copper plates, bottles of acid, packets of fibre paper, and photographic paraphernalia. A camera, a reading-lamp, and a dark-lantern stood on a shelf beside a nickel-plated clock which ticked sharply.

The two windows in the room had been sealed up with planks, over which sheet iron was nailed. The door also had been reinforced with sheet-iron. From a peg above it a repeating-rifle hung festooned with two cartridge belts.

When he had filled his lamp from a can of kerosene he lighted it and sat down to the task before him with even less interest than usual—and his interest had been waning for weeks. For the excitement that makes crime interesting had subsided and the novelty was gone. There was no longer anything in his crime that appealed to his intellect. The problem of successfully accomplishing crime was no longer a problem to him; he had solved it. The twelve months' work on the plate before him demonstrated this; the plate was perfect; the counterfeit an absolute fac-simile. The government stood to lose whatever he chose to take from it.

As an artist in engraving and as an intelligent man, Helm was, or had been, proud of his work. But for that very reason, because he was an artist, he had tired of his masterpiece, and was already fingering a new plate, vaguely meditating better and more ambitious work. Why not? Why should he not employ his splendid skill and superb accuracy in something original? That is where the artist and the artisan part company—the artisan is always content to copy; the artist, once master of his tools, creates.

In Helm the artist was now in the ascendant; he dreamed of engraving living things direct from nature—the depths of forests shot with sunshine, scrubby uplands against a sky crowded with clouds, and perhaps cattle nosing for herbage among the rank fern and tangled briers of a scanty pasture—perhaps even the shy, wild country children, bareheaded and naked of knee and shoulder, half-tamed, staring from the road-side brambles.

It is, of course, possible that Helm was a natural-born criminal, yet his motive for trying his skill at counterfeiting was revenge and not personal gain.

He had served his apprenticeship in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He had served the government for twelve years, through three administrations. Being a high salaried employe, the civil service gave him no protection when the quadrennial double-shuffle changed the politics of the administration. He was thrown aside like a shabby garment which has served its purpose, and although for years he had known what ultimate reward was reserved for those whom the republic hires, he could never bring himself to believe that years of faithful labor and a skill which increased with every new task set could meet the common fate. So when his resignation was requested, and when, refusing indignantly, he was turned out, neck and heels, after his twelve years of faultless service, it changed the man terribly.

He went away with revenge in his mind and the skill and intelligence to accomplish it. But now that he had accomplished it, and the plate was finished, and the government at his mercy, the incentive to consummate his revenge lagged. After all, what could he revenge himself on? The government?—that huge, stupid, abstract bulk! Had it a shape, a form concrete, nerves, that it could suffer in its turn? Even if it could suffer, after all, he was tired of suffering. There was no novelty in it.

Perhaps his recent life alone in the sweet, wholesome woods had soothed a bitter and rebellious heart. There is a balm for deepest wounds in the wind, and in the stillness of a wilderness there is salve for souls.

As he sat there brooding, or dreaming of the work he might yet do, there stole into his senses that impalpable consciousness of another presence, near, and coming nearer. Alert, silent, he rose, and as he turned he heard the front gate click. In an instant he had extinguished lamp and candle, and, stepping back into the hallway, he laid his ear to the door.

In the silence he heard steps along the gravel, then on the porch. There was a pause; leaning closer to the door he could hear the rapid, irregular breathing of his visitor. Knocking began at last, a very gentle rapping; silence, another uncertain rap, then the sound of retreating steps from the gravel, and the click of the gate-latch. With one hand covering the weapon in his coat-pocket, he opened the door without a sound and stepped out.

A young girl stood just outside his gate.

"Who are you and what is your business with this house?" he inquired, grimly. The criminal in him was now in the ascendant; he was alert, cool, suspicious, and insolent. He saw in anybody who approached his house the menace of discovery, perhaps an intentional and cunning attempt to entrap and destroy him. All that was evil in him came to the surface; the fear that anybody might forcibly frustrate his revenge—if he chose to revenge himself—raised a demon in him that blanched his naturally pallid face and started his lip muscles into that curious recession which, in animals, is the first symptom of the snarl.

"What do you want?" he repeated. "Why do you knock and then slink away?"

"I did not know you were at home," said the girl, faintly.

"Then why do you come knocking? Who are you, anyway?" he demanded, harshly, knowing perfectly well who she was.

"I am the postmistress at Nauvoo," she faltered—"that is, I was—"

"Really," he said, angrily; "your intelligence might teach you to go where you are more welcome."

His brutality seemed to paralyze the girl. She looked at him as though attempting to comprehend his meaning. "Are you not Mr. Helm?" she asked, in a sweet, bewildered voice.

"Yes, I am," he replied, shortly.

"I thought you were a gentleman," she continued, in the same stunned voice.

"I'm not," said Helm, bitterly. "I fancy you will agree with me, too. Good-night."

He deliberately turned his back on her and sat down on the wooden steps of the porch; but his finely modelled ears were alert and listening, and when to his amazement he heard her open his gate again and re-enter, he swung around with eyes contracting wickedly.

She met his evil glance quite bravely, wincing when he invited her to leave the yard. But she came nearer, crossing the rank, soaking grass, and stood beside him where he was sitting.

"May I tell you something?" she asked, timidly.

"Will you be good enough to pass your way?" he answered, rising.

"Not yet," she replied, and seated herself on the steps. The next moment she was crying, silently, but that only lasted until she could touch her eyes with her handkerchief.

He stood above her on the steps. Perhaps it was astonishment that sealed his lips, perhaps decency. He had noticed that she was slightly lame, although her slender figure appeared almost faultless. He waited for a moment.

Far on the clearing's dusky edge a white-throated sparrow called persistently to a mate that did not answer.

If Helm felt alarm or feared treachery his voice did not betray it. "What is the trouble?" he demanded, less roughly.

She said, without looking at him: "I have deceived you. There was a letter for you to-day. It came apart and—I found—this—"

She held out a bit of paper. He took it mechanically. His face had suddenly turned gray.

The paper was fibre paper. He stood there breathless, his face a ghastly, bloodless mask; and when he found his voice it was only the ghost of a voice.

"What is all this about?" he asked.

"About fibre paper," she answered, looking up at him.

"Fibre paper!" he repeated, confounded by her candor.

"Yes—government fibre. Do you think I don't know what it is?"

For the first time there was bitterness in her voice. She turned partly around, supporting her body on one arm. "Fibre paper? Ah, yes—I know what it is," she said again.

He looked her squarely in the eyes and he saw in her face that she knew what he was and what he had been doing in Nauvoo. The blood slowly stained his pallid cheeks.

"Well," he said, coolly, "what are you going to do about it?"

His eyes began to grow narrow and the lines about his mouth deepened. The criminal in him, brought to bay, watched every movement of the young girl before him. Tranquil and optimistic, he quietly seated himself on the wooden steps beside her. Little he cared for her and her discovery. It would take more than a pretty, lame girl to turn him from his destiny; and his destiny was what he chose to make it. He almost smiled at her.

"So," he said, in smooth, even tones, "you think the game is up?"

"Yes; but nothing need harm you," she answered, eagerly.

"Harm me!" he repeated, with an ugly sneer; then a sudden, wholesome curiosity seized him, and he blurted out, "But what do you care?"

Looking up at him, she started to reply, and the words failed her. She bent her head in silence.

"Why?" he demanded again.

"I have often seen you," she faltered; "I sometimes thought you were unhappy."

"But why do you come to warn me? People hate me in Nauvoo."

"I do not hate you," she replied, faintly.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

A star suddenly gleamed low over the forest's level crest. Night had fallen in Nauvoo. After a silence he said, in an altered voice, "Am I to understand that you came to warn a common criminal?"

She did not answer.

"Do you know what I am doing?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What?"

"You are counterfeiting."

"How do you know," he said, with a touch of menace in his sullen voice.

"Because—because—my father did it—"

"Did what?"

"Counterfeited—what you are doing now!" she gasped. "That is how I know about the fibre. I knew it the moment I saw it—government fibre—and I knew what was on it; the flame justified me. And oh, I could not let them take you as they took father—to prison for all those years!"

"Your father!" he blurted out.

"Yes," she cried, revolted; "and his handwriting is on that piece of paper in your hand!"

Through the stillness of the evening the rushing of a distant brook among the hemlocks grew louder, increasing on the night wind like the sound of a distant train on a trestle. Then the wind died out; a night bird whistled in the starlight; a white moth hummed up and down the vines over the porch.

"I know who you are now," the girl continued; "you knew my father in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing."

"Yes."

"And your name is not Helm."

"No."

"Do you not know that the government watches discharged employes of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing?"

"I know it."

"So you changed your name?"

"Yes."

She leaned nearer, looking earnestly into his shadowy eyes.

"Do you know that an officer of the secret service is coming to Nauvoo?"

"I could take the plate and go. There is time," he answered, sullenly.

"Yes—there is time." A dry sob choked her. He heard the catch in her voice, but he did not move his eyes from the ground. His heart seemed to have grown curiously heavy; a strange inertia weighted his limbs. Fear, anger, bitterness, nay, revenge itself, had died out, leaving not a tranquil mind but a tired one. The pulse scarcely beat in his body. After a while the apathy of mind and body appeared to rest him. He was so tired of hate.

"Give me the keys," she whispered. "Is it in there? Where is the plate? In that room? Give me the keys."

As in a dream he handed her his keys. Through a lethargy which was almost a stupor he saw her enter his house; he heard her unlock the door of the room where his plates lay. After a moment she found a match and lighted the candles. Helm sat heavily on the steps, his head on his breast, dimly aware that she was passing and repassing, carrying bottles and armfuls of tools and paper and plates out into the darkness somewhere.

It may have been a few minutes; it may have been an hour before she returned to him on the steps, breathing rapidly, her limp gown clinging to her limbs, her dark hair falling to her shoulders.

"The plates and acids will never be found," she said, breathlessly; "I put everything into the swamp. It is quicksand."

For a long time neither spoke. At length she slowly turned away towards the gate, and he rose and followed, scarcely aware of what he was doing.

At the gate she stooped and pushed a dark object out of sight under the bushes by the fence.

"Let me help you," he said, bending beside her.

"No, no; don't," she stammered; "it is nothing."

He found it and handed it to her. It was her crutch; and she turned crimson to the roots of her hair.

"Lean on me," he said, very gently.

The girl bit her trembling lip till the blood came. "Thank you," she said, crushing back her tears; "my crutch is enough—but you need not have known it. Kindness is comparative; one can be too kind."

He misunderstood her and drew back. "I forgot," he said, quietly, "what privileges are denied to criminals."

"Privilege!" she faltered. After a moment she laid one hand on his arm.

"I shall be very glad of your help," she said; "I am more lame than I wish the world to know. It was only the vanity of a cripple that refused you."

But he thought her very beautiful as she passed with him out into the starlight.



MARLITT'S SHOES

I

Through the open window the spring sunshine fell on Calvert's broad back. Tennant faced the window, smoking reflectively.

"I should like to ask a favor," he said; "may I?"

"Certainly you may," replied Calvert; "everybody else asks favors three hundred and sixty-five times a year."

Tennant, smoking peacefully, gazed at an open window across the narrow court-yard, where, in the sunshine, a young girl sat sewing.

"The favor," he said, "is this: there is a vacancy on the staff, and I wish you'd give Marlitt another chance."

"Marlitt!" exclaimed Calvert. "Why Marlitt?"

"Because," said Tennant, "I understand that I am wearing Marlitt's shoes—and the shoes pinch."

"Marlitt's shoes would certainly pinch you if you were wearing them," said Calvert, grimly. "But you are not. Suppose you were? Better wear even Marlitt's shoes than hop about the world barefoot. You are a singularly sensitive young man. I come up-town to offer you Warrington's place, and your reply is a homily on Marlitt's shoes!"

Calvert's black eyes began to snap and his fat, pink face turned pinker.

"Mr. Tennant," he said, "I am useful to those who are useful to me. I am a business man. I know of no man or syndicate of men wealthy enough to conduct a business for the sake of giving employment to the unsuccessful!"

Tennant smoked thoughtfully.

"Some incompetent," continued Calvert, "is trying to make you uncomfortable. You asked us for a chance; we gave you the chance. You proved valuable to us, and we gave you Marlitt's job. You need not worry: Marlitt was useless, and had to go anyway. Warrington left us to-day, and you've got to do his work."

Tennant regarded him in silence; Calvert laid one pudgy hand on the door-knob. "You know what we think of your work. There is not a man in New York who has your chance. All I say is, we gave you the chance and you took it. Keep it; that's what we ask!"

"That is what I ask," said Tennant, with a troubled laugh. "I am sentimentalist enough to feel something like gratitude towards those who gave me my first opportunity."

"Obligation's mutual," snapped Calvert. The hardness in his eyes, however, had died out. "You'd better finish that double page," he added; "they want to start the color-work by Monday. You'll hear from us if there's any delay. Good-bye."



Tennant opened the door for him; Calvert, buttoning his gloves, stepped out into the hallway and rang for the elevator. Then he turned:

"Don't let envy make things unpleasant for you, Mr. Tennant."

"Nobody has shown me any envy," said Tennant.

"I thought you said something about your friend Marlitt—"

"I never saw Marlitt; I only know his work."

"Oh," said Calvert, with a peculiar smile, "you only know his work!"

"That is all. Who is Marlitt?"

"The last of an old New York family; reduced circumstances, proud, incompetent, unsuccessful. Why does the artist who signs 'Marlitt' interest you?"

"This is why," said Tennant, and drew a letter from his pocket. "Do you mind listening?"

"Go on," said Calvert, with a wry face. And Tennant began:

"'DEAR MR. TENNANT,—Just a few words to express my keenest interest and delight in the work you are doing—not only the color work, but the pen-and-ink. You know that the public has made you their idol, but I thought you might care to know what the unsuccessful in your own profession think. You have already taught us so much; you are, week by week, raising the standard so high; and you are doing so much for me, that I venture to thank you and wish you still greater happiness and success. MARLITT.'"

Calvert looked up. "Is that all?"

"That is all. There is neither date nor address on the note. I wrote to Marlitt care of your office. Your office forwarded it, I see, but the post-office returned it to me to-day.... What has become of Marlitt?"

Calvert touched the elevator-bell again. "If I knew," he said, "I'd find a place for—Marlitt."

Tennant's face lighted. Calvert, scowling, avoided his eyes.

"I want you to understand," he said, peevishly, "that there is no sentiment in this matter."

"I understand," said Tennant.

"You think you do," sneered Calvert, stepping into the elevator. The door slammed; the cage descended; the fat, pink countenance of Calvert, distorted into a furious sneer, slowly sank out of sight.

II

Tennant entered his studio and closed the door. In the mellow light the smile faded from his face. Perhaps he was thinking of the unsuccessful, from whose crowded ranks he had risen—comrades preordained to mediocrity, foredoomed to failure—industrious, hopeful, brave young fellows, who must live their lives to learn the most terrible of all lessons—that bravery alone wins no battles.

"What luck I have had!" he said, aloud, to himself, walking over to the table and seating himself before the drawing. For an hour he studied it; touched it here and there, caressing outlines, swinging masses into vigorous composition with a touch of point or a sweeping erasure. Strength, knowledge, command were his; he knew it, and he knew the pleasure of it.

Having finished the drawing, he unpinned the pencil studies, replacing each by its detail in color—charming studies executed with sober precision, yet sparkling with a gayety that no reticence and self-denial could dim. He dusted the drawing, tacked on tracing-paper, and began to transfer, whistling softly as he bent above his work.

Sunlight fell across the corner of the table, glittering among glasses, saucers of porcelain, crystal bowls in which brushes dipped in brilliant colors had been rinsed. To escape the sun he rolled the table back a little way, then continued, using the ivory-pointed tracing-stylus. He worked neither rapidly nor slowly; there was a leisurely precision in his progress; pencil, brush, tracer, eraser, did their errands surely, steadily. Yet already he had the reputation of being the most rapid worker in his craft.

During intervals when he leaned back to stretch his muscles and light a cigarette his eyes wandered towards a window just across the court, where sometimes a girl sat. She was there now, rocking in a dingy rocking-chair, stitching away by her open window. Once or twice she turned her head and glanced across at him. After an interval he laid his cigarette on the edge of a saucer and resumed his work. In the golden gloom of the studio the stillness was absolute, save for the delicate stir of a curtain rustling at his open window. A breeze moved the hair on his temples; his eyes wandered towards the window across the court. The window was so close that they could have conversed together had they known each other.

In the court new grass was growing; grimy shrubbery had freshened into green; a tree was already in full leaf. Here and there cats sprawled on sun-warmed roofs, sparrows chirked under eaves from whence wisps of litter trailed, betraying hidden nests.

Below his window, hanging in heavy twists, a wistaria twined, its long bunches of lilac-tinted blossoms alive with bees.

His eyes followed the flight of a shabby sparrow. "If I were a bird," he said, aloud, "I'd not be idiot enough to live in a New York back yard." And he resumed his work, whistling.

But the languor of spring was in his veins, and he bent forward again, sniffing the mild air. The witchery of spring had also drawn his neighbor to her window, where she leaned on the sill, cheeks in her hands, listlessly watching the flight of the sparrows.

The little creatures were nest-building; from moment to moment a bird fluttered up towards the eaves, bearing with it a bit of straw, a feather sometimes, sometimes a twisted end of string.

"It's spring-fever," he yawned, passing one hand over his eyes. "I feel like rolling on the grass—there's a puppy in that yard doing it now—"

He washed a badger brush and dried it. Perfume from the wistaria filled his throat and lungs; his very breath, exhaling, seemed sweetened with the scent.

"There's that girl across the way," he said, aloud, as though making the discovery for the first time.

Sunshine now lay in dazzling white patches across his drawing. He blinked, washed another brush, and leaned back in his chair again, looking across at his neighbor. Youth is in itself attractive; and she was young—a white-skinned, dark-eyed girl, a trifle colorless, perhaps, like a healthy plant needing the sun.

"They grow like that in this town," he reflected, drumming idly on the table with his pencil. "Who is she? I've seen her there for months, and I don't know."

The girl raised her dark eyes and gave him a serene stare.

"Oh yes," he muttered, "I see your eyes, but they tell me nothing about you. You're all alike when you look at us out of the windows called eyes. What's behind those eyes? Nobody knows. Nobody knows."

He dropped his hand on the table and began tracing arabesques with his pencil-point. Then his capricious fancy blossomed into a sketch of his neighbor—a rapid idealization, which first amused, then enthralled him.

And while his pencil flew he murmured lazily to himself: "You don't know what I'm doing, do you? I wonder what you'd do if you did know?... Thank you, ma belle, for sitting so still. Won't you smile a little? No?... Who are you? What are you?—with your dimpled white hands framing your face.... I had no idea you were half so lovely! ... or is it my fancy and my pencil which endow you with qualities that you do not possess?... There! you moved. Don't let it occur again."...

He passed a soft eraser over the sketch, dimming its outline; picked out a brush and began in color, rambling on in easy, listless self-communion: "I've asked you who you are and you haven't told me. Pas chic, ca. There are thousands and thousands of dark-eyed little things like you in this city. Did you ever see the streets when the shops close? There are thousands and thousands like you in the throng;—some poor, some poorer; some good, some better; some young, some younger; all trotting across the world on eager feet. Where? Nobody knows. Why? Nobody knows. Heigh-ho! Your portrait is done, little neighbor."

He hovered over the delicate sketch, silent a moment, under the spell of his own work. "If you were like this, a man might fall in love with you," he muttered, raising his eyes.

The development of ideas is always remarkable, particularly on a sunny day in spring-time. Sunshine, blue sky, and the perfume of the wistaria were too much for Tennant.

"I'm going out!" he said, abruptly, and put on his hat. Then he drew on his gloves, lighted a cigarette, and glanced across at his neighbor.

"I wish you were going, too," he said.

His neighbor had risen and was now standing by her window, hands clasped behind her, gazing dreamily out into the sunshine.

"Upon my word," said Tennant, "you are really as pretty as my sketch! Now isn't that curious? I had no idea—"

A rich tint crept into his neighbor's face, staining the white skin with carmine.

"The sun is doing you good," he said, approvingly. "You ought to put on your hat and go out."

She turned, as though she had heard his words, and picked up a big, black straw hat, placing it daintily upon her head.

"Well!—if—that—isn't—curious!" said Tennant, astonished, as she swung nonchalantly towards an invisible mirror and passed a long, gilded pin through the crown of her hat.

"It seems that I only have to suggest a thing—" He hesitated, watching her.

"Of course it was coincidence," he said; "but—suppose it wasn't? Suppose it was telepathy—thought transmitted?"

His neighbor was buttoning her gloves.

"I'm a beast to stand here staring," he murmured, as she moved leisurely towards her window, apparently unconscious of him. "It's a shame," he added, "that we don't know each other! I'm going to the Park; I wish you were—I want you to go—because it would do you good! You must go!"

Her left glove was now buttoned; the right gave her some difficulty, which she started to overcome with a hair-pin.

"If mental persuasion can do it, you and I are going to meet under the wistaria arbor in the Park," he said, with emphasis.

To concentrate his thoughts he stood rigid, thinking as hard as a young man can think with a distractingly pretty girl fastening her glove opposite; and the effort produced a deep crease between his eyebrows.

"You—are—going—to—the—wistaria—arbor—in—the Park!" he repeated, solemnly.

She turned as though she had heard, and looked straight at him. Her face was bright with color; never had he seen such fresh beauty in a human face.

Her eyes wandered from him upward to the serene blue sky; then she stepped back, glanced into the mirror, touched her hair with the tips of her gloved fingers, and walked away, disappearing into the gloom of the room.

An astonishing sense of loneliness came over him—a perfectly unreasonable feeling, because every day for months he had seen her disappear from the window, always viewing the phenomenon with disinterested equanimity.

"Now I don't for a moment suppose she's going to the wistaria arbor," he said, mournfully, walking towards his door.

But all the way down in the elevator and out on the street he was comforting himself with stories of strange coincidences; of how, sometimes, walking alone and thinking of a person he had not seen or thought of for years, raising his eyes he had met that person face to face. And a presentiment that he should meet his neighbor under the wistaria arbor grew stronger and stronger, until, as he turned into the broad, southeastern entrance to the Park, his heart began beating an uneasy, expectant tattoo under his starched white waist-coat.

"I've been smoking too many cigarettes," he muttered. "Things like that don't happen. It would be too silly—"

And it was rather silly; but she was there. He saw her the moment he entered the wistaria arbor, seated in a rustic recess. It may be that she was reading the book she held so unsteadily in her small, gloved fingers, but the book was upside down. And when his footstep echoed on the asphalt, she raised a pair of thoroughly frightened eyes.



His expression verged on the idiotic; they were a scared pair, and it was only when the bright flush of guilt flooded her face that he recovered his senses in a measure and took off his hat.

"I—I hadn't the slightest notion that you would come," he stammered. "This is the—the most amazing example of telepathy I ever heard of!"

"Telepathy?" she repeated, faintly.

"Telepathy! Thought persuasion! It's incredible! It's—it's a—it was a dreadful thing to do. I don't know what to say."

"Is it necessary for you to say anything to—me?"

"Can you ever pardon me?"

"I don't think I understand," she said, slowly. "Are you asking pardon for your rudeness in speaking to me?"

"No," he almost groaned; "I'll do that later. There is something much worse—"

Her cool self-possession unnerved him. Composure is sometimes the culmination of fright; but he did not know that, because he did not know the subtler sex. His fluency left him; all he could repeat was, "I'm sorry I'm speaking to you—but there's something much worse."

"I cannot imagine anything worse," she said.

"Won't you grant me a moment to explain?" he urged.

"How can I?" she replied, calmly. "How can a woman permit a man to speak without shadow of excuse? You know perfectly well what convention requires."

Hot, uncomfortable, he looked at her so appealingly that her eyes softened a little.

"I don't suppose you mean to be impertinent to me," she said, coldly.

He said that he didn't with so much fervor that something perilously close to a smile touched her lips. He told her who he was, and the information appeared to surprise her, so it is safe to assume she knew it already. He pleaded in extenuation that they had been neighbors for a year; but she had not, apparently, been aware of this either; and the snub completed his discomfiture.

"I—I was so anxious to know you," he said, miserably. "That was the beginning—"

"It is a perfectly horrid thing to say," she said, indignantly. "Do you suppose, because you are a public character, you are privileged to speak to anybody?"

He attempted to say he didn't, but she went on: "Of course that is not a palliation of your offence. It is a dreadful condition of affairs if a woman cannot go out alone—"

"Please don't say that!" he cried.

"I must. It is a terrible comment on modern social conditions," she repeated, shaking her pretty head. "A woman who permits it—especially a woman who is obliged to support herself—for if I were not poor I should be driving here in my brougham, and you know it!—oh, it is a hideously common thing for a girl to do!" Opening her book, she appeared to be deeply interested in it. But the book was upside down.

Glancing at him a moment later, she was apparently surprised to find him still standing beside her. However, he had noted two things in that moment of respite: she held the book upside down, and on the title-page was written a signature that he knew—"Marlitt."

"Under the circumstances," she said, coldly, "do you think it decent to continue this conversation?"

"Yes, I do," he said. "I'm a decent sort of fellow, or you would have divined the contrary long ago; and there is a humiliating explanation that I owe you."

"You owe me every explanation," she said, "but I am generous enough to spare you the humiliation."

"I know what you mean," he admitted. "I hypnotized you into coming here, and you are aware of it."

Pink to the ears with resentment and confusion, she sat up very straight and stared at him. From a pretty girl defiant, she became an angry beauty. And he quailed.

"Did you imagine that you hypnotized me?" she asked, incredulously.

"What was it, then?" he muttered. "You did everything I wished for—"

"What did you wish for?"

"I—I thought you needed the sun, and as soon as I said that you ought to go out, you—you put on that big, black hat. And then I wished I knew you—I wished you would come here to the wistaria arbor, and—you came."

"In other words," she said, disdainfully, "you deliberately planned to control my mind and induce me to meet you in a clandestine and horrid manner."

"I never looked at it in that way. I only knew I admired you a lot, and—and you were tremendously charming—more so than my sketch—"

"What sketch?"

"I—you see, I made a little sketch," he admitted—"a little picture of you—"

Her silence scared him.

"Do you mind?" he ventured.

"Of course you will send that portrait to me at once!" she said.

"Oh yes, of course I will; I had meant to send it anyway—"

"That," she observed, "would have been the very height of impertinence."

Opening her book again, she indulged him with a view of the most exquisite profile he had ever dreamed of.

She despised him; there seemed to be no doubt about that. He despised himself; his offence, stripped by her of all extenuation, appeared to him in its own naked hideousness; and it appalled him.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "there's nothing criminal in me. I never imagined that a man could appear to such disadvantage as I appear. I'll go. There's no use in hoping for pardon. I'll go."

Studying her book, she said, without raising her eyes, "I am offended—deeply hurt—but—"

He waited anxiously.

"But I am sorry to say that I am not as deeply offended as I ought to be."

"That is very, very kind of you," he said, warmly.

"It is very depraved of me," she retorted, turning a page.

After a silence, he said, "Then I suppose I must go."

It is possible she did not hear him; she seemed engrossed, bending a little closer over the book on her knee, for the shadows of blossom and foliage above had crept across the printed page.

All the silence was in tremulous vibration with the hum of bees; the perfume of the flowers grew sweeter as the sun sank towards the west, flinging long, blue shadows over the grass and asphalt.

A gray squirrel came hopping along, tail twitching, and deliberately climbed up the seat where she was sitting, squatting beside her, paws drooping in dumb appeal.

"You dear little thing!" said the girl, impulsively. "I wish I had a bonbon for you! Have you anything in the world to give this half-starved squirrel, Mr. Tennant?"

"Nothing but a cigarette," muttered Tennant. "I'll go out to the gate if you—" He hesitated. "They generally sell peanuts out there," he added, vaguely.

"Squirrels adore peanuts," she murmured, caressing the squirrel, who had begun fearlessly snooping into her lap.

Tennant, enchanted at the tacit commission, started off at a pace that brought him to the gate and back again before he could arrange his own disordered thoughts.

She was reading when he returned, and she cooled his enthusiasm with a stare of surprise.

"The squirrel? Oh, I'm sure I don't know where that squirrel has gone. Did you really go all the way to the gate for peanuts to stuff that overfed squirrel?"

He looked at the four paper bags, opened one of them, and stirred the nuts with his hand.

"What shall I do with them?" he asked.

Then, and neither ever knew exactly why, she began to laugh. The first laugh was brief; an oppressive silence followed—then she laughed again; and as he grew redder and redder, she laughed the most deliciously fresh peal of laughter he had ever heard.

"This is dreadful!" she said. "I should never have come alone to the Park! You should never have dared to speak to me. All we need to do now is to eat those peanuts, and you have all the material for a picture of courtship below-stairs! Oh, dear, and the worst part of it all is that I laugh!"

"If you'd let me sit down," he said, "I'd complete the picture and eat peanuts."

"You dare not!"

He seated himself, opened a paper bag, and deliberately cracked and ate a nut.

"Horrors! and disillusion! The idol of the public—munching peanuts!"

"You ought to try one," he said.

She stood it for a while; but the saving grace of humour warned her of her peril, and she ate a peanut.

"To save my face," she explained. "But I didn't suppose you were capable of it."

"As a matter of fact," he said, tranquilly, "a man can do anything in this world if he only does it thoroughly and appears to enjoy himself. I've seen the Prince Regent of Boznovia sitting at the window of the Crown Regiment barracks arrayed in his shirt-sleeves and absorbing beer and pretzels."

"But he was the Prince Regent!"

"And I'm Tennant."

"According to that philosophy you are at liberty to eat fish with your knife."

"But I don't want to."

"But suppose you did want to?"

"That is neither philosophy nor logic," he insisted; "that is speculation. May I offer you a stick of old-fashioned circus candy flavored with wintergreen?"

"You may," she said, accepting it. "If there is any lower depth I may attain, I'm sure you will suggest it."

"I'll try," he said. Their eyes met for an instant; then hers were lowered.

Squirrels came in troops; she fed the little, fat scamps to repletion, and the green lawn was dotted with squirrels all busily burying peanuts for future consumption. A brilliant peacock appeared, picking his way towards them, followed by a covey of imbecile peafowl. She fed them until their crops protruded.

The sun glittered on the upper windows of the clubs and hotels along Fifth Avenue; the west turned gold, then pink. Clouds of tiny moths came hovering among the wistaria blossoms; and high in the sky the metallic note of a nighthawk rang, repeating in querulous cadence the cries of water-fowl on the lake, where mallard and widgeon were restlessly preparing for an evening flight.

"You know," she said, gravely, "a woman who over-steps convention always suffers; a man, never. I have done something I never expected to do—never supposed was in me to do. And now that I have gone so far, it is perhaps better for me to go farther." She looked at him steadily. "Your studio is a perfect sounding-board. You have an astonishingly frank habit of talking to yourself; and every word is perfectly audible to me when my window is raised. When you chose to apostrophize me as a 'white-faced, dark-eyed little thing,' and when you remarked to yourself that there were 'thousands like me in New York,' I was perfectly indignant."

He sat staring at her, utterly incapable of uttering a sound.

"It costs a great deal for me to say this," she went on. "But I am obliged to because it is not fair to let you go on communing aloud with yourself—and I cannot close my window in warm weather. It costs more than you know for me to say this; for it is an admission that I heard you say that you were coming to the wistaria arbor—"

She bent her crimsoned face; the silence of evening fell over the arbor.

"I don't know why I came," she said—"whether with a vague idea of giving you the chance to speak, and so seizing the opportunity to warn you that your soliloquies were audible to me—whether to tempt you to speak and make it plain to you that I am not one of the thousand shop-girls you have observed after the shops close—"

"Don't," he said, hoarsely. "I'm miserable enough."

"I don't wish you to feel miserable," she said. "I have a very exalted idea of you. I—I understand artists."

"They're fools," he said. "Say anything you like before I go. I had—hoped for—perhaps for your friendship. But a woman can't respect a fool."

He rose in his humiliation.

"I can ask no privileges," he said, "but I must say one thing before I go. You have a book there which bears the signature of an artist named Marlitt. I am very anxious for his address; I think I have important news for him—good news. That is why I ask it."

The girl looked at him quietly.

"What news have you for him?"

"I suppose you have a right to ask," he said, "or you would not ask. I do not know Marlitt. I liked his work. Mr. Calvert suggested that Marlitt should return to resume work—"

"No," said the girl, "you suggested it."

He was staggered. "Did you even hear that!" he gasped.

"You were standing by your window," she said. "Mr. Tennant, I think that was the real reason why I came to the wistaria arbor—to thank you for what you have done. You see—you see, I am Marlitt."

He sank down on the seat opposite.

"Everything has gone wrong," she said. "I came to thank you—and everything turned out so differently—and I was dreadfully rude to you—"

She covered her face with her hands.

"Then you wrote me that letter," he said, slowly. In the silence of the gathering dusk the electric lamps snapped alight, flooding the arbor with silvery radiance. He said:

"If a man had written me that letter I should have desired his friendship and offered mine."

She dropped her hands and looked at him. "Thank you for speaking to Calvert," she said, rising hastily; "I have been desperately in need of work. My pride is quite dead, you see—one or the other of us had to die."

She looked down with a gay little smile. "If it wouldn't spoil you I should tell you what I think of you. Meanwhile, as servitude becomes man, you may tie my shoe for me—Marlitt's shoe that pinched you.... Tie it tightly, so that I shall not lose it again.... Thank you."

As he rose, their eyes met once more; and the perilous sweetness in hers fascinated him.

She drew a deep, unsteady breath. "Will you take me home?" she asked.



PASQUE FLORIDA

The steady flicker of lightning in the southwest continued; the wind freshened, blowing in cooler streaks across acres of rattling rushes and dead marsh-grass. A dull light grew through the scudding clouds, then faded as the mid-day sun went out in the smother, leaving an ominous red smear overhead.

Gun in hand, Haltren stood up among the reeds and inspected the landscape. Already the fish-crows and egrets were flying inland, the pelicans had left the sandbar, the eagles were gone from beach and dune. High in the thickening sky wild ducks passed over Flyover Point and dropped into the sheltered marshes among the cypress.

As Haltren stood undecided, watching the ruddy play of lightning, which came no nearer than the horizon, a squall struck the lagoon. Then, amid the immense solitude of marsh and water, a deep sound grew—the roar of the wind in the wilderness. The solemn paeon swelled and died away as thunder dies, leaving the air tremulous.

"I'd better get out of this," said Haltren to himself. He felt for the breech of his gun, unloaded both barrels, and slowly pocketed the cartridges.

Eastward, between the vast salt river and the ocean, the dunes were smoking like wind-lashed breakers; a heron, laboring heavily, flapped inland, broad pinions buffeting the gale.

"Something's due to happen," said Haltren, reflectively, closing the breech of his gun. He had hauled his boat up an alligator-slide; now he shoved it off the same way, and pulling up his hip-boots, waded out, laid his gun in the stern, threw cartridge-sack and a dozen dead ducks after it, and embarked among the raft of wind-tossed wooden decoys.

There were twoscore decoys bobbing and tugging at their anchor-cords outside the point. Before he had fished up a dozen on the blade of his oar a heavier squall struck the lagoon, blowing the boat out into the river. He had managed to paddle back and had secured another brace of decoys, when a violent gale caught him broadside, almost capsizing him.

"If I don't get those decoys now I never shall!" he muttered, doggedly jabbing about with extended oar. But he never got them; for at that moment a tropical hurricane, still in its infancy, began to develop, and when, blinded with spray, he managed to jam the oars into the oar-locks, his boat was half a mile out and still driving.

For a week the wind had piled the lagoons and lakes south of the Matanzas full of water, and now the waves sprang up, bursting into menacing shapes, knocking the boat about viciously. Haltren turned his unquiet eyes towards a streak of green water ahead.

"I don't suppose this catspaw is really trying to drive me out of Coquina Inlet!" he said, peevishly; "I don't suppose I'm being blown out to sea."

It was a stormy end for a day's pleasure—yet curiously appropriate, too, for it was the fourth anniversary of his wedding-day; and the storm that followed had blown him out into the waste corners of the world.

Perhaps something of this idea came into his head; he laughed a disagreeable laugh and fell to rowing.

The red lightning still darted along the southern horizon, no nearer; the wilderness of water, of palm forests, of jungle, of dune, was bathed in a sickly light; overhead oceans of clouds tore through a sombre sky.

After a while he understood that he was making no headway; then he saw that the storm was shaping his course. He dug his oars into the thick, gray waves; the wind tore the cap from his head, caught the boat and wrestled with it.

Somehow or other he must get the boat ashore before he came abreast of the inlet; otherwise—

He turned his head and stared at the whitecaps tumbling along the deadly raceway; and he almost dropped his oars in astonishment to see a gasoline-launch battling for safety just north of the storm-swept channel. What was a launch doing in this forsaken end of the earth? And the next instant developed the answer. Out at sea, beyond the outer bar, a yacht, wallowing like a white whale, was staggering towards the open ocean.

He saw all this in a flash—saw the gray-green maelstrom between the dunes, the launch struggling across the inlet, the yacht plunging seaward. Then in the endless palm forests the roar deepened. Flash! Bang! lightning and thunder were simultaneous.

"That's better," said Haltren, hanging to his oars; "there's a fighting chance now."

The rain came, beating the waves down, seemingly, for a moment, beating out the wind itself. In the partial silence the sharp explosions of the gasoline-engine echoed like volleys of pistol-shots; and Haltren half rose in his pitching boat, and shouted: "Launch ahoy! Run under the lee shore. There's a hurricane coming! You haven't a second to lose!"

He heard somebody aboard the launch say, distinctly, "There's a Florida cracker alongside who says a hurricane is about due." The shrill roar of the rain drowned the voice. Haltren bent to his oars again. Then a young man in dripping white flannels looked out of the wheel-house and hailed him. "We've grounded on the meadows twice. If you know the channel you'd better come aboard and take the wheel."

Haltren, already north of the inlet and within the zone of safety, rested on his oars a second and looked back, listening. Very far away he heard the deep whisper of death.

On board the launch the young man at the wheel heard it, too; and he hailed Haltren in a shaky voice: "I wouldn't ask you to come back, but there are women aboard. Can't you help us?"

"All right," said Haltren.

A horrible white glare broke out through the haze; the solid vertical torrent of rain swayed, then slanted eastward.

A wave threw him alongside the launch; he scrambled over the low rail and ran forward, deafened by the din. A woman in oilskins hung to the companion-rail; he saw her white face as he passed. Haggard, staggering, he entered the wheel-house, where the young man in dripping flannels seized his arm, calling him by name. Haltren pushed him aside.

"Give me that wheel, Darrow," he said, hoarsely. "Ring full speed ahead! Now stand clear—"

Like an explosion the white tornado burst, burying deck and wheel-house in foam; a bellowing fury of tumbling waters enveloped the launch. Haltren hung to the wheel one second, two, five, ten; and at last through the howling chaos his stunned ears caught the faint staccato spat! puff! spat! of the exhaust. Thirty seconds more—if the engines could stand it—if they only could stand it!

They stood it for thirty-three seconds and went to smash. A terrific squall, partly deflected from the forest, hurled the launch into the swamp, now all boiling in shallow foam; and there she stuck in the good, thick mud, heeled over and all awash like a stranded razor-back after a freshet.

Twenty minutes later the sun came out; the waters of the lagoon turned sky blue; a delicate breeze from the southeast stirred the palmetto fronds.

Presently a cardinal-bird began singing in the sunshine.

* * * * *

Haltren, standing in the wrecked wheel-house, raised his dazed eyes as Darrow entered and looked around.

"So that was a white tornado! I've heard of them—but—good God!" He turned a bloodless visage to Haltren, who, dripping, bareheaded and silent, stood with eyes closed leaning heavily against the wheel.

"Are you hurt?"

Haltren shook his head. Darrow regarded him stupidly.

"How did you happen to be in this part of the world?"

Haltren opened his eyes. "Oh, I'm likely to be anywhere," he said, vaguely, passing a shaking hand across his face. There was a moment's silence; then he said:

"Darrow, is my wife aboard this boat?"

"Yes," said Darrow, under his breath. "Isn't that the limit?"

Through the silence the cardinal sang steadily.

"Isn't that the limit?" repeated Darrow. "We came on the yacht—that was Brent's yacht, the Dione, you saw at sea. You know the people aboard. Brent, Mrs. Castle, your wife, and I left the others and took the launch to explore the lagoons.... And here we are. Isn't it funny?" he added, with a nerveless laugh.

Haltren stood there slowly passing his hand over his face.

"It is funnier than you know, Darrow," he said. "Kathleen and I—this is our wedding-day."

"Well, that is the limit," muttered Darrow, as Haltren turned a stunned face to the sunshine where the little cardinal sang with might and main.

"Come below," he added. "You are going to speak to her, of course?"

"If she cared to have me—"

"Speak to her anyway. Haltren; I"—he hesitated—"I never knew why you and Kathleen separated. I only knew what everybody knows. You and she are four years older now; and if there's a ghost of a chance— Do you understand?"

Haltren nodded.

"Then we'll go below," began Darrow. But Major Brent appeared at that moment, apoplectic eyes popping from his purple face as he waddled forward to survey the dismantled launch.

Without noticing either Haltren or Darrow, he tested the slippery angle of the deck, almost slid off into the lagoon, clutched the rail with both pudgy hands, and glared at the water.

"I suppose," he said, peevishly, "that there are alligators in that water. I know there are!"

He turned his inflamed eyes on Haltren, but made no sign of recognition.

"Major," said Darrow, sharply, "you remember Dick Haltren—"

"Eh?" snapped the major. "Where the deuce did you come from, Haltren?"

"He was the man who hailed us. He took the wheel," said Darrow, meaningly.

"Nice mess you made of it between you," retorted the major, scowling his acknowledgments at Haltren.

Darrow, disgusted, turned on his heel; Haltren laughed. The sound of his own laugh amused him, and he laughed again.

"I don't see the humor," said the major. "The Dione is blown half-way to the Bermudas by this time." He added, with a tragic gesture of his fat arms; "Are you aware that Mrs. Jack Onderdonk is aboard?"

The possible fate of Manhattan's queen regent so horrified Major Brent that his congested features assumed the expression of an alarmed tadpole.

But Haltren, the unaccustomed taste of mirth in his throat once more, stood there, dripping, dishevelled, and laughing. For four years he had missed the life he had been bred to; he had missed even what he despised in it, and his life at moments had become a hell of isolation. Time dulled the edges of his loneliness; solitude, if it hurts, sometimes cures too. But he was not yet cured of longing for that self-forbidden city in the North. He desired it—he desired the arid wilderness of its treeless streets, its incessant sounds, its restless energy; he desired its pleasures, its frivolous days and nights, its satiated security, its ennui. Its life had been his life, its people his people, and he longed for it with a desire that racked him.

"What the devil are you laughing at, Haltren?" asked the major, tartly.

"Was I laughing?" said the young man. "Well—now I will say good-bye, Major Brent. Your yacht will steam in before night and send a boat for you; and I shall have my lagoons to myself again.... I have been here a long time.... I don't know why I laughed just now. There was, indeed, no reason." He turned and looked at the cabin skylights. "It's hard to realize that you and Darrow and—others—are here, and that there's a whole yacht-load of fellow-creatures—and Mrs. Van Onderdonk—wobbling about the Atlantic near by. Fashionable people have never before come here—even intelligent people rarely penetrate this wilderness.... I—I have a plantation a few miles below—oranges and things, you know." He hesitated, almost wistfully. "I don't suppose you and your guests would care to stop there for a few hours, if your yacht is late."

"No," said the major, "we don't care to."

"Perhaps Haltren will stay aboard the wreck with us until the Dione comes in," suggested Darrow.

"I dare say you have a camp hereabouts," said the major, staring at Haltren; "no doubt you'd be more comfortable there."

"Thanks," said Haltren, pleasantly; "I have my camp a mile below." He offered his hand to Darrow, who, too angry to speak, nodded violently towards the cabin.

"How can I?" asked Haltren. "Good-bye. And I'll say good-bye to you, major—"

"Good-bye," muttered the major, attempting to clasp his fat little hands behind his back.

Haltren, who had no idea of offering his hand, stood still a moment, glancing at the cabin skylights; then, with a final nod to Darrow, he deliberately slid over-board and waded away, knee-deep, towards the palm-fringed shore.

Darrow could not contain himself. "Major Brent," he said, "I suppose you don't realize that Haltren saved the lives of every soul aboard this launch."

The major's inflamed eyes popped out.

"Eh? What's that?"

"More than that," said Darrow, "he came back from safety to risk his life. As it was he lost his boat and his gun—"

"Damnation!" broke out the major; "you don't expect me to ask him to stay and meet the wife he deserted four years ago!"

And he waddled off to the engine-room, where the engineer and his assistant were tinkering at the wrecked engine.

Darrow went down into the sloppy cabin, where, on a couch, Mrs. Castle lay, ill from the shock of the recent catastrophe; and beside her stood an attractive girl stirring sweet spirits of ammonia in a tumbler.

Her eyes were fixed on the open port-hole. Through that port-hole the lagoon was visible; so was Haltren, wading shoreward, a solitary figure against the fringed rampart of the wilderness.

"Is Mrs. Castle better?" asked Darrow.

"I think so; I think she is asleep," said the girl, calmly.

There was a pause; then Darrow took the tumbler and stirred the contents.

"Do you know who it was that got us out of that pickle?"

"Yes," she said; "my husband."

"I suppose you could hear what we said on deck."

There was no answer.

"Could you, Kathleen?"

"Yes."

Darrow stared into the tumbler, tasted the medicine, and frowned.

"Isn't there—isn't there a chance—a ghost of a chance?" he asked.

"I think not," she answered—"I am sure not. I shall never see him again."

"I meant for myself," said Darrow, deliberately, looking her full in the face.

She crimsoned to her temples, then her eyes flashed violet fire.

"Not the slightest," she said.

"Thanks," said Darrow, flippantly; "I only wanted to know."

"You know now, don't you?" she asked, a trifle excited, yet realizing instinctively that somehow she had been tricked. And yet, until that moment, she had believed Darrow to be her slave. He had been and was still; but she was not longer certain, and her uncertainty confused her.

"Do you mean to say that you have any human feeling left for that vagabond?" demanded Darrow. So earnest was he that his tanned face grew tense and white.

"I'll tell you," she said, breathlessly, "that from this moment I have no human feeling left for you! And I never had! I know it now; never! never! I had rather be the divorced wife of Jack Haltren than the wife of any man alive!"

The angry beauty of her young face was his reward; he turned away and climbed the companion. And in the shattered wheel-house he faced his own trouble, muttering: "I've done my best; I've tried to show the pluck he showed. He's got his chance now!" And he leaned heavily on the wheel, covering his eyes with his hands; for he was fiercely in love, and he had destroyed for a friend's sake all that he had ever hoped for.

But there was more to be done; he aroused himself presently and wandered around to the engine-room, where the major was prowling about, fussing and fuming and bullying his engineer.

"Major," said Darrow, guilelessly, "do you suppose Haltren's appearance has upset his wife?"

"Eh?" said the major. "No, I don't! I refuse to believe that a woman of Mrs. Haltren's sense and personal dignity could be upset by such a man! By gad! sir, if I thought it—for one instant, sir—for one second—I'd reason with her. I'd presume so far as to express my personal opinion of this fellow Haltren!"

"Perhaps I'd better speak to her," began Darrow.

"No, sir! Why the devil should you assume that liberty?" demanded Major Brent. "Allow me, sir; allow me! Mrs. Haltren is my guest!"

The major's long-latent jealousy of Darrow was now fully ablaze; purple, pop-eyed, and puffing, he toddled down the companion on his errand of consolation. Darrow watched him go. "That settles him!" he said. Then he called the engineer over and bade him rig up and launch the portable canoe.

"Put one paddle in it, Johnson, and say to Mrs. Haltren that she had better paddle north, because a mile below there is a camp belonging to a man whom Major Brent and I do not wish to have her meet."

The grimy engineer hauled out the packet which, when put together, was warranted to become a full-fledged canoe.

"Lord! how she'll hate us all, even poor Johnson," murmured Darrow. "I don't know much about Kathleen Haltren, but if she doesn't paddle south I'll eat cotton-waste with oil-dressing for dinner!"

At that moment the major reappeared, toddling excitedly towards the stern.

"What on earth is the trouble?" asked Darrow. "Is there a pizen sarpint aboard?"

"Trouble!" stammered the major. "Who said there was any trouble? Don't be an ass, sir! Don't even look like an ass, sir! Damnation!"

And he trotted furiously into the engine-room.

Darrow climbed to the wheel-house once more, fished out a pair of binoculars, and fixed them on the inlet and the strip of Atlantic beyond.

"If the Dione isn't in by three o'clock, Haltren will have his chance," he murmured.

He was still inspecting the ocean and his watch alternately when Mrs. Haltren came on deck.

"Did you send me the canoe?" she asked, with cool unconcern.

"It's for anybody," he said, morosely. "Somebody ought to take a snap-shot of the scene of our disaster. If you don't want the canoe, I'll take it."

She had her camera in her hand; it was possible he had noticed it, although he appeared to be very busy with his binoculars.

He was also rude enough to turn his back. She hesitated, looked up the lagoon and down the lagoon. She could only see half a mile south, because Flyover Point blocked the view.

"If Mrs. Castle is nervous you will be near the cabin?" she asked, coldly.

"I'll be here," he said.

"And you may say to Major Brent," she added, "that he need not send me further orders by his engineer, and that I shall paddle wherever caprice invites me."

A few moments later a portable canoe glided out from under the stern of the launch. In it, lazily wielding the polished paddle, sat young Mrs. Haltren, bareheaded, barearmed, singing as sweetly as the little cardinal, who paused in sheer surprise at the loveliness of song and singer. Like a homing pigeon the canoe circled to take its bearings once, then glided away due south.

Blue was the sky and water; her eyes were bluer; white as the sands her bare arms glimmered. Was it a sunbeam caught entangled in her burnished hair, or a stray strand, that burned far on the water.

Darrow dropped his eyes; and when again he looked, the canoe had vanished behind the rushes of Flyover Point, and there was nothing moving on the water far as the eye could see.

* * * * *

About three o'clock that afternoon, the pigeon-toed Seminole Indian who followed Haltren, as a silent, dangerous dog follows its master, laid down the heavy pink cedar log which he had brought to the fire, and stood perfectly silent, nose up, slitted eyes almost closed.

Haltren's glance was a question. "Paddl'um boat," said the Indian, sullenly.

After a pause Haltren said, "I don't hear it, Tiger."

"Hunh!" grunted the Seminole. "Paddl'um damn slow. Bime-by you hear."

And bime-by Haltren heard.

"Somebody is landing," he said.

The Indian folded his arms and stood bolt upright for a moment; then, "Hunh!" he muttered, disgusted. "Heap squaw. Tiger will go."

Haltren did not hear him; up the palmetto-choked trail from the landing strolled a girl, paddle poised over one shoulder, bright hair blowing. He rose to his feet; she saw him standing in the haze of the fire and made him a pretty gesture of recognition.

"I thought I'd call to pay my respects," she said. "How do you do? May I sit on this soap-box?"

Smiling, she laid the paddle on the ground and held out one hand as he stepped forward.

They shook hands very civilly.

"That was a brave thing you did," she said. "Mes compliments, monsieur."

And that was all said about the wreck.

"It's not unlike an Adirondack camp," she suggested, looking around at the open-faced, palm-thatched shanty with its usual hangings of blankets and wet clothing, and its smoky, tin-pan bric-a-brac.

Her blue eyes swept all in rapid review—the guns leaning against the tree; the bunch of dead bluebill ducks hanging beyond; the improvised table and bench outside; the enormous mottled rattlesnake skin tacked lengthways on a live-oak.

"Are there many of those about?" she inquired.

"Very few"—he waited to control the voice which did not sound much like his own—"very few rattlers yet. They come out later."

"That's amiable of them," she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders.

There was a pause.

"I hope you are well," he ventured.

"Perfectly—and thank you. I hope you are well, Jack."

"Thank you, Kathleen."

She picked up a chip of rose-colored cedar and sniffed it daintily.

"Like a lead-pencil, isn't it? Put that big log on the fire. The odor of burning cedar must be delicious."

He lifted the great log and laid it across the coals.

"Suppose we lunch?" she proposed, looking straight at the simmering coffee-pot.

"Would you really care to?" Then he raised his voice: "Tiger! Tiger! Where the dickens are you?" But Tiger, half a mile away, squatted sulkily on the lagoon's edge, fishing, and muttering to himself that there were too many white people in the forest for him.

"He won't come," said Haltren. "You know the Seminoles hate the whites, and consider themselves still unconquered. There is scarcely an instance on record of a Seminole attaching himself to one of us."

"But your tame Tiger appears to follow you."

"He's an exception."

"Perhaps you are an exception, too."

He looked up with a haggard smile, then bent over the fire and poked the ashes with a pointed palmetto stem. There were half a dozen sweet-potatoes there, and a baked duck and an ash-cake.

"Goodness!" she said; "if you knew how hungry I am you wouldn't be so deliberate. Where are the cups and spoons? Which is Tiger's? Well, you may use his."

The log table was set and the duck ready before Haltren could hunt up the jug of mineral water which Tiger had buried somewhere to keep cool.

When he came back with it from the shore he found her sitting at table with an exaggerated air of patience.

They both laughed a little; he took his seat opposite; she poured the coffee, and he dismembered the duck.

"You ought to be ashamed of that duck," she said. "The law is on now."

"I know it," he replied, "but necessity knows no law. I'm up here looking for wild orange stock, and I live on what I can get. Even the sacred, unbranded razor-back is fish for our net—with a fair chance of a shooting-scrape between us and a prowling cracker. If you will stay to dinner you may have roast wild boar."

"That alone is almost worth staying for, isn't it?" she asked, innocently.

There was a trifle more color in his sunburned face.

She ate very little, though protesting that her hunger shamed her; she sipped her coffee, blue eyes sometimes fixed on the tall palms and oaks overhead, sometimes on him.

"What was that great, winged shadow that passed across the table?" she exclaimed.

"A vulture; they are never far away."

"Ugh!" she shuddered; "always waiting for something to die! How can a man live here, knowing that?"

"I don't propose to die out-doors," said Haltren, laughing.

Again the huge shadow swept between them; she shrank back with a little gesture of repugnance. Perhaps she was thinking of her nearness to death in the inlet.

"Are there alligators here, too?" she asked.

"Yes; they run away from you."

"And moccasin snakes?"

"Some. They don't trouble a man who keeps his eyes open."

"A nice country you live in!" she said, disdainfully.

"It is one kind of country. There is good shooting."

"Anything else?"

"Sunshine all the year round. I have a house covered with scented things and buried in orange-trees. It is very beautiful. A little lonely at times—one can't have Fifth Avenue and pick one's own grape-fruit from the veranda, too."

A silence fell between them; through the late afternoon stillness they heard the splash! splash! of leaping mullet in the lagoon. Suddenly a crimson-throated humming-bird whirred past, hung vibrating before a flowering creeper, then darted away.

"Spring is drifting northward," he said. "To-morrow will be Easter Day—Pasque Florida."

She rose, saying, carelessly, "I was not thinking of to-morrow; I was thinking of to-day," and, walking across the cleared circle, she picked up her paddle. He followed her, and she looked around gayly, swinging the paddle to her shoulder.

"You said you were thinking of to-day," he stammered. "It—it is our anniversary."

She raised her eyebrows. "I am astonished that you remembered.... I think that I ought to go. The Dione will be in before long—"

"We can hear her whistle when she steams in," he said.

"Are you actually inviting me to stay?" she laughed, seating herself on the soap-box once more.

They became very grave as he sat down on the ground at her feet, and, a silence threatening, she hastily filled it with a description of the yacht and Major Brent's guests. He listened, watching her intently. And after a while, having no more to say, she pretended to hear sounds resembling a distant yacht's whistle.

"It's the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds," he said. "Now will you let me say something—about the past?"

"It has buried itself," she said, under her breath.

"To-morrow is Easter," he went on, slowly. "Can there be no resurrection for dead days as there is for Easter flowers? Winter is over; Pasque Florida will dawn on a world of blossoms. May I speak, Kathleen?"

"It is I who should speak," she said. "I meant to. It is this: forgive me for all. I am sorry."

"I have nothing to forgive," he said. "I was a—a failure. I—I do not understand women."

"Nor I men. They are not what I understand. I don't mean the mob I've been bred to dance with—I understand them. But a real man—" she laughed, drearily—"I expected a god for a husband."

"I am sorry," he said; "I am horribly sorry. I have learned many things in four years. Kathleen, I—I don't know what to do."

"There is nothing to do, is there?"

"Your freedom—"

"I am free."

"I am afraid you will need more freedom than you have, some day."

She looked him full in the eyes. "Do you desire it?"

A faint sound fell upon the stillness of the forest; they listened; it came again from the distant sea.

"I think it is the yacht," she said.

They rose together; he took her paddle, and they walked down the jungle path to the landing. Her canoe and his spare boat lay there, floating close together.

"It will be an hour before a boat from the yacht reaches the wrecked launch," he said. "Will you wait in my boat?"

She bent her head and laid her hand in his, stepping lightly into the bow.

"Cast off and row me a little way," she said, leaning back in the stern. "Isn't this lagoon wonderful? See the color in water and sky. How green the forest is!—green as a young woodland in April. And the reeds are green and gold, and the west is all gold. Look at that great white bird—with wings like an angel's! What is that heavenly odor from the forest? Oh," she sighed, elbows on knees, "this is too delicious to be real!"

A moment later she began, irrelevantly: "Ethics! Ethics! who can teach them? One must know, and heed no teaching. All preconceived ideas may be wrong; I am quite sure I was wrong—sometimes."

And again irrelevantly, "I was horribly intolerant once."

"Once you asked me a question," he said. "We separated because I refused to answer you."

She closed her eyes and the color flooded her face.

"I shall never ask it again," she said.

But he went on: "I refused to reply. I was an ass; I had theories, too. They're gone, quite gone. I will answer you now, if you wish."

Her face burned. "No! No, don't—don't answer me; don't, I beg of you! I—I know now that even the gods—" She covered her face with her hands. The boat drifted rapidly on; it was flood-tide.

"Yes, even the gods," he said. "There is the answer. Now you know."

Overhead the sky grew pink; wedge after wedge of water-fowl swept through the calm evening air, and their aerial whimpering rush sounded faintly over the water.

"Kathleen!"

She made no movement.

Far away a dull shock set the air vibrating. The Dione was saluting her castaways. The swift Southern night, robed in rose and violet, already veiled the forest; and the darkling water deepened into purple.

"Jack!"

He rose and crept forward to the stern where she was sitting. Her hands hung idly; her head was bent.

Into the purple dusk they drifted, he at her feet, close against her knees. Once she laid her hands on his shoulders, peering at him with wet eyes.

THE END