"'I simply can't do it, doctor,' she said, and began to cry.

"Anthony stood very still for a moment, then in his quiet, strong voice, he said, 'Dear lady, it must be done—for your soul's sake.'

"She looked up at him in a startled way. 'Why my soul?' she asked. 'It's my body that's sick.'

"He shook his head. 'It's deeper than that,' he answered; 'you've lost your grip because life has never meant labor to you. The people who work have healthy minds and healthy bodies. Those who do not, waver between weakness and wickedness. That's what's the matter with society to-day—that's what's the matter with you. You must finish your bunnies' ears, therefore, for the sake of your soul—your body will respond——'

"She went back to her loom," Justin continued, "with a different look on her face. The lines were smoothed out from her forehead. Neither of them had seemed to notice that I was there. It was a psychological moment when the doctor had to speak, and it was wonderful to hear him talk like that."

Bettina's puzzled eyes met his. "Oh, but do you think that people have to work to be happy?" she said. "I hate work. I like to be warm and comfortable, and have pretty clothes, and—everything."

"Of course you do," said Justin, responding to her mood, lightly, "but you don't want to get Dr. Blake after you—he preaches a gospel of endeavor."

"Oh!" There was a note of dismay in Bettina's voice. "But not all of us can be bees. Some of us must be the butterflies."

Justin spoke, somewhat seriously: "I've been a butterfly for three years, and I give you my word I'm not getting much out of it. Seeing Mrs. Martens has brought back the days when I worked over there in Germany to get the money to finish my studies. Has she told you how I used to go to her and drink her delicious coffee and eat thick bread and butter, and bask in her sympathy until I got the courage to go on again? Yet I felt all the time that I was getting somewhere, and here I'm stagnating——"

Bettina settled herself back comfortably in her cushioned seat. "Well, I don't think it's anything to worry about. It seems perfectly wonderful to me not to have anything to do—if I had mother back," her voice trembled, "I wouldn't care how much I had to work for her—but after she—left me, everything seemed so—so sordid, and hard—and——Oh, I hated it—and then——" She drew herself up sharply.

"Then——?" Justin prompted her.

"Diana came," she went on, after a moment's hesitation, "and now everything will be different."

Justin had a baffled sense of some mystery from the solution of which he was shut out, but he merely said, heartily, "I hope you'll stay forever," and felt his heart leap as the ends of her white veil fluttered against his lips.



CHAPTER VII

HARBOR LIGHT

Anthony's sanatorium was an enlargement of an old mansion which had belonged to his grandfather. The wide green lawns swept down to the sea. There was an orchard to the left of the house, and to the right a rose garden, and the barn had been turned into a weaving room.

Within the house everything was restful and harmonious. Money had been spent without stint to produce beauty in its most subtle expression; each window framed a view of sea or sky or of sunlighted trees; the walls, the hangings, the rugs were of that ashes-of-rose tint which give light to an interior without glare.

Diana, entering, with her arms full of lilacs, was met by a nurse.

"Dr. Blake wants you at once," she said; "he's in his office."

"Take these, Betty." Diana thrust the lilacs into the girl's arms. "Perhaps you'd better go back and sit in the car with Justin and Sophie, or you can wait in the reception room. I won't be long."

But she was longer than she had anticipated. The seconds lengthened into minutes, and the minutes in quarters and into half hours. Justin came in once and found Bettina sitting stiffly on the edge of a chair with the flowers in her arms.

"Come out and we'll take a spin across the causeway, while we wait," he said.

Bettina shook her head. "Diana said she wouldn't be long. I don't see what's keeping her."

"There's that operation this morning, you know, on the girl with appendicitis. And Diana has always been a great help with Anthony's patients. He told me that when she went to Europe her loss was felt deeply here——"

"But the girl—with appendicitis?" Bettina's face was white. "Is she afraid——?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I should be afraid. I—I don't see how Anthony can do it."

"Do what?"

"Operate on such a little scared thing——" She was shivering.

"You mustn't stay here," Justin insisted; "you'll get nervous, you know, and all that; you really mustn't stay—you weren't made to have your mind on such things."

"But Diana's mind is on them."

"Diana is—different."

That Diana was different was being demonstrated at that very moment in an upper room, where a little white slip of a girl had welcomed her with a wailing cry—"I'm afraid."

"My dear," Diana bent over the bed, "there's nothing to be afraid of, not with your doctor."

"But—if I should die."

"You're not going to die."

"But how do you know?"

"Because your good doctor has said so—and he knows——"

"But sometimes people do—die."

Diana signed to the nurse to go out, and then she knelt by the bed.

"Dear child," she said, softly, "life is such a short journey for all of us, and beyond is a wonder land. When I was a little girl I used to wish that I might die, and I thought that my lonely little soul might sail and sail in a silver boat until I came to the shores of that far country where I should find my father and mother waiting. I was such a dreary little orphan, and I wanted love. And I knew that in that country Love waited for me—as it is waiting for you. Would it be so hard to go after all the pain, if Love willed it so?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Then think of it now. But most of all think of life, and of what it will mean to you when wise Dr. Blake has made you well. And think of this, too, that when you wake up from your long sleep there will be a bunch of white lilacs right here on this little table—to welcome you back to the world—will you promise to think of the white lilacs until you go to sleep?"

She was talking against time, trying to get the tense look out of the girl's eyes. And now she was rewarded by the lowered lids and the relaxing of the little figure in her arms.

"I am going to think of the lilacs," the girl whispered. "Are you very sure they will be there?"

"Very sure, dear."

"Then I'm ready——"

* * * * *

Diana, going out, met Anthony.

"She's all right," she said. "I'm glad you had me come.

"She confided in me at once. She just needed her mind diverted, and I turned it on white lilacs. I will have a bunch for her when she wakes, and she is going to think of them. Is there really any danger, Anthony?"

"Scarcely any—and there was no choice. She couldn't live without it."

"How wonderful that you can save life, Anthony."

"In saving others I save myself, Diana. It has kept me in these later years from—chaos——"

Something in his voice made Diana say, quickly, "Betty is down-stairs. Poor child, she has waited for a long time. Can you come down?"

"No. She ought not to be here, Diana."

"She would come. I think she hoped to see you. And why shouldn't she come? Your work is here."

"She isn't fitted for it. She is born for the brightness of life, not for its shadows. I fancy if she could see me in my operating outfit that she'd look upon me as something between a brute and a butcher. Poor child!" His laugh was grim.

Diana's progress down the corridor partook of the nature of an ovation. From one room to another she went, and was welcomed by patients, many of whom made periodical visits to "Harbor Light"—which was the picturesque name Anthony had given his house because, as he explained, it was to be a beacon to such derelicts as drifted there. There were men and women of wealth who came to be fortified for another season of excitement, and there were men and women to whom the doctor gave lodging and his skill without financial recompense. But no one knew to whom such charity was extended, and all were equal in care and treatment.

Most of the nurses, too, had been there long enough to know the inspiration and uplift which was brought by the gracious lady in the white gown.

When the patients asked, "Who is she?" the reply was whispered, "Diana Gregory. Everybody hopes she'll marry the doctor. He's dead in love with her."

At last Diana slipped away, promising to come again soon to look at the weaving, to see the new pottery—

"But not now," she insisted, brightly; "there's some one waiting for me down-stairs."

She found Bettina still sitting stiffly on the edge of the chair. She had sent Justin back to Sophie, and a nurse had taken away the lilacs. All the glory had gone out of her morning when Anthony had asked for Diana.

"Why didn't he want me?" she demanded, when Diana came toward her with an eager apology. "Why didn't Anthony want me?"

"My dear, he always wants you, but there's an operation on now."

"On that girl with appendicitis?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how can he do it, Diana? I think it's dreadful—to—to hurt people——"

"He doesn't hurt them, dear."

"But it's horrid. I—I hate it."

"Betty!"

"I—I shan't ever let him talk about it to me." The child's breath was coming quickly. "Never—never—never, when we are married—and I'm going to make him give it up——"

"Give it up?" Diana's voice rang clear and sharp. "Give what up?"

"His surgery. I didn't mind the other—when he came to mother and gave her medicine in bottles—but this is different, and the women here——Why, Diana, some of them looked in at the door, and they were—freaks."

"They're sick, dear."

"I don't like sick things. I loved mother, and I could stand it, but Anthony mustn't let me see such people—not now, so soon after——!"

"Hush, Betty! Oh, you shouldn't have come in. We'll go now and have a long ride with Justin, and to-night you'll see Anthony—and some day you'll realize what a great man he is."

"I know he's a great surgeon, and, of course, I'll have to put up with it—but I shall hate it just the same, Diana."

Put up with it—oh, Diana! For years she had urged him toward this end, that he might stand at the head of that profession which combats death with a flaming sword. For years she had watched him struggle upward, and had gloried, not only in his fame, but in his power of healing.

Together the two women went down the path.

"Are you tired of waiting?" Diana asked as they came up to the car.

"Justin took me for a little ride," said Sophie, "and I sat in front with him. We tried to get Bettina to go, but she wouldn't. She thought she ought to wait for you."

"I wish I hadn't waited," said Bettina, as Justin helped her in. "I—I don't like sick people, and I hate that queer smell——"

"Ether," said Justin, promptly; "it's because of the operation."

He leaned forward, and the car shot out toward the causeway. The way led first through a street overarched with elms; beyond the elms there was a vista of sea and sky. A fragrant wind blew from the blossoming trees, and swept Bettina's veil away from her face so that it billowed above her hat like the wings of some great bird.

The hospital was behind; ahead was the long white road. Justin was smiling down into her eyes. For the first time she noticed his look of joyous youth.

"I begin to understand why it is that you fly," she said, as they came out upon the causeway and saw the stretch of harbor beyond.

"Why?"

"Because you feel that you must get up high enough to flap your wings."

"I could do that on a barn-yard fence, couldn't I—like Chantecler, and make the sun rise?"

"You could never get up early enough."

"I flew past your window at six."

"How did you know it was my window?"

Justin glanced down at her. Her soft white hat was pulled low, so that it almost hid her eyes, but through the veil he could see that they were softly shining. Her lips were red, and her cheeks touched by the wind with vivid color.

"I knew—because my heart told me," he said, ardently.

But she did not blush. "You knew it because you know which is Diana's guest room," she stated.

"Were you awake?"

"No. I am never awake at six—I love to be lazy."

"Don't tell that to Dr. Anthony or he'll set you to weaving. You know what I told you; he said that idleness leads to weakness or wickedness——"

"I haven't had time to see what it leads to," Bettina informed him. "I've always been so busy. I'm going to play for a while."

"Will you play with me?" Justin challenged her.

Shining eyes met shining eyes—youth responded to youth.

"It will be glorious," said Bettina, meeting his mood.

They laughed together, the care-free laughter of their golden age. Diana, catching the echo of it, waked from a reverie which had to do with Anthony back there in a big, bare room, contending with skilful and steady hands against the evil forces which sought to destroy; saving a life, giving to a little unknown girl a future of hope and of health.

Every breath that she had drawn since she had left him had been a prayer that his hand might not fail, that his nerves might be like steel—she felt as if her heart were beating with his to uphold him, as if she could bear him on the wings of love and be his talisman against harm.

Yet in front of her was the girl he was to marry, laughing lightly up into the eyes of a boy, unconscious of her lover's need, unconscious of everything except that she was young and free from care—and that the morning world was beautiful!



CHAPTER VIII

THE EMPTY HOUSE

When the doctor came that night he was tired. The day had been a hard one, and he felt weighed down by the woes of those weak folk who bore so heavily on his strength.

He found Bettina alone. Diana and Sophie had gone to play bridge across the harbor, and only Delia in the garden and Peter Pan on the porch remained for chaperonage.

Bettina greeted her betrothed soberly, and held up her face to be kissed. "I said things about you yesterday," she confessed, as she and Anthony settled themselves on the porch where they could look out upon the lights. "I said things about you to Diana, and afterward we went to the Pirate House with Justin Ford for lunch, and I flirted with him——"

"What did you say about me?"

"That I hated your surgery—that it seemed dreadful."

He had been smiling, but he grew grave at once.

"You can't separate me from my work, child; you must take us together."

"Of course; I know that now. Diana was talking to me after we came home from our ride. She told me some of the wonderful things you had done, and of how people almost said their prayers to you."

"Not quite that—but it's my reward that so many of my patients are my friends because I have helped them."

"And Diana said that if I loved you I'd be glad—to let you—cut people up."

In spite of himself he laughed. She was irresistible.

"I shan't exact that of you. But at least you must not worry."

"And I won't have to live there?" anxiously.

"Where?"

"At the sanatorium?"

"Of course not. You'll live over there."

He pointed to a jutting rock on the top of which a big house loomed white in the moonlight.

"There? Oh, I'd love to go over it. Couldn't we, now?"

He hesitated. "Perhaps it would be better to wait till there are others." Then, seeing her disappointment, he agreed. "Well, if Delia will come too."

"Delia?"

"To open the rooms." He had not the heart to tell her how sharp were the tongues of the gossips of the little town.

So Delia, a little later, limped after them with Peter following, confidently.

"And you flirted with Justin," Anthony remarked on the way over.

"Yes. In the little tea room. Diana and Mrs. Martens sat at one table, and Mr. Ford and I at the other—and he was so funny—and I——Well, any one looking on might have thought I was in earnest."

"What did Diana think?"

"Oh, she knows how I feel about you——"

"And Justin, does he know?"

"Of course not. It's not announced, you know."

"But if he should take you in earnest."

"Silly," Bettina tucked her hand in his arm, "nobody takes me in earnest—but you——"

Her hesitation was charming, but he did not respond ardently, and perhaps she missed something in his manner, for presently she asked, "Are you jealous?"

"My dear, no. Children must play——"

She sighed a little. "Am I such a child?"

He laughed again. "Of course, you're a mere baby—but a dear baby, Betty mine."

And with that she was content.

The big house was not furnished.

"I am going to put in the things which were in the old house before I turned it into a sanatorium. My grandfather was a sea captain, and I have a model of a ship carved by one of his sailors out of soup bones, and there are two great china tureens in the shape of swans, and some ivories and queer embroidered screens that I wouldn't take anything for. It's a sort of jumble for a modern residence, but I like it. And I have had the house built in a style which will be in keeping with my belongings. It's rocky and rugged and there's a fireplace in every room. I like to burn logs for cheerfulness even when there's a furnace—and to come home to the light of them on winter nights."

"I love pretty new things," Bettina informed him. "May I have all white for my room? With ivory things on my dresser with silver monograms, and—white fur rugs?"

Her room!

It came to Anthony, with the force of a blow, that there was no room in the big house for Bettina.

Why, that room was Diana's—that room which looked out on Minot's. He had thought of her as inhabiting it. He had never meant that the great light should say, "I love you," to Bettina.

For months, even when he felt that he had lost Diana, her spirit had seemed to dwell in the place he had planned for her. Whenever he had entered her room it had not seemed bare, for his imagination had filled it with the furniture which had been his grandmother's wedding set—the big canopied bed, the winged chair on the hearth, the quaint lyre-legged sewing table by the window. And on the other side of the hearth would be another chair—his own. And in that room he had seen Diana, his bride, in the moonlight; his wife, waiting in the winged chair to welcome him after a weary day.

And now this pretty child—and Diana banished? What had he done? What dreadful thing had he done?

Bettina, unconscious, said pleasant things about the living-room, the library, the great hall, the broad stairway—

As yet there was no connection for lighting, so they carried candles, Anthony holding one aloft for himself and Bettina, and Delia coming after with a taper. Peter, like a flash of flame, slipped ahead of Delia and was lost in the shadows.

They went into every room on the second floor before they entered the one which faced Minot's. To him it was the Holy of Holies, but Bettina stepped in boldly.

It was a great high-ceiled chamber with its distant corners made darker by the moonlight. Through the wide window which faced the south was a vast expanse of sky and sea. Anthony's house stood near the end of the harbor, so that across the causeway was the open water, a stretch of limitless blue.

Bettina shivered. "It's so big and dark."

"When it's furnished and the lights are on it will seem different."

Delia, arriving at that moment, added her contribution to the conversation.

"Miss Diana came over yesterday. Them's her white lilacs on the shelf."

The doctor held his candle higher. The flowers, in a great bowl of gray pottery, showed ghostly outlines beneath the flickering flame. To Anthony the air seemed thick and faint with their perfume.

"Let us go," he said to Bettina, quickly, and with his hand on her arm he led her away and shut the door.

Diana and Sophie, coming home at half-past ten, found the lovers on the porch, and the four talked together until Anthony said "Good-bye."

He made a professional call in a side street and found himself, afterward, turning toward the big empty house on the rocks. In that south room Diana's lilacs were wasting their sweetness, and he coveted the subtle suggestion they gave of her presence there.

* * * * *

Diana, helping Delia to lock up, asked, "Where's Peter?"

"Goodness knows," said Delia; "he followed me when we went over to the doctor's house, and I ain't seen him since."

Diana turned and looked at her. "The doctor's house? Who went?"

"Dr. Anthony and Miss Betty and me. They asked me. She hadn't ever seen it, and he wanted to show it to her."

Diana felt her heart stand still.

"Did you go—into every room, Delia?"

"Yes."

So he had taken little Betty there. They had entered that room to which, that very morning, she had carried white lilacs, moved by some impulse to call it her own until some one else should have the right to claim it.

"I'll look up Peter," she told Delia, hastily. "You needn't wait for me."

The town clock struck half-past eleven as she went through the garden—wraith-like in her long white wrap.

"Peter," she called softly, "Peter, Peter."

Following the path over the rocks, she came at last to the empty house.

A faint mew sounded from within. She turned the knob, and found the door unlocked. "Peter," she called again, and the big cat came forth, his tail waving like a plume.

Diana, facing the darkness of the great hall, felt impelled to enter, to slip silently up the stairs, to stand on the threshold of the moonlighted chamber, whence came the perfume of white lilacs.

And as she stood there, she saw, with a sudden leap of the heart, that Anthony was before her. Silhouetted against the wide space of the open window he was looking out at the flashing light.

She put her hand to her throat. She stepped back as if to escape. Then, swayed by an impulse which cast prudence to the winds, she spoke his name.

"Anthony!"

"Diana!"

He had turned from the window, and was peering through the dimness. He came toward her. She held out her hands to keep him back.

"Oh, please—no—no——"

But he took her in his arms.

When he let her go his face was white.

"There is no excuse for me," he said. "I know that. I've given my word of honor to that little child—who trusts me. Yet—this room belongs to you. Before you came to-night I touched the lilacs with my lips, and it seemed to me as if they were your lips—that I touched. And when I turned and saw you—white—like a bride—on the threshold—it was as I had seen you, night after night—in my dreams. You belong here and no other, Diana!"

What she said in reply Diana could never remember with any great distinctness. She only knew that she was trying to hold on as best she could to the best that was within her. Anthony in this moment of weakness was hers. Whatever she did now would bring him to her or send him away—perhaps forever. She struggled to think clearly—to raise some barrier between his awakened passion and her own wild desire to take what the gods had placed within easy reach of her hand.

Suddenly she found herself speaking. Her throat was dry and she was shaking from head to foot. But she was telling him that she had tried to use common sense. That she had asked Bettina to come to her hoping that there might be found some way out. But there wasn't any way out, not any honorable way. And she didn't dare play Fate any longer. Not after to-night. Not after—to-night.

Her voice broke.

"Diana—dear girl——"

He put both of his strong hands on her shoulders, and so they faced each other in the illumined night.

"For just one little moment," he said, "we will have the truth. If I had not asked Betty you would have married me, Diana?"

"Yes."

"If there is any honorable way in which I can release myself, will you marry me now?"

She had a sudden vision of the slender, lonely child in shabby black as she had first seen her in the shadowy room.

"No, oh, no," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't any honorable way; because I should feel little and mean; because it would make me think less—of you, Anthony."

Her eyes met his steadily. She was as pale as the spectral lilacs, whose perfume floated about them. But her nervous fears were gone. She knew now that they would triumph—she and Anthony—that they were not to leave the heights.

When at last he spoke, it was in a moved voice. "If you were less than you are I should not love you so much. You know that, Diana?"

"Yes, I know——"

"In the years to come, what you have been to me will be my light—in the darkness——"

Unable to speak, she held out her hands to him. He took them, and bent his head.

With a little murmured cry she released herself, and flitted away into the engulfing darkness. The echoes of her swift descent came whispering up the stairs; in the distance a door was shut. The emptiness of the unfinished house seemed symbolic of the future which stretched before him.



CHAPTER IX

THE GOLDEN AGE

Justin Ford had not been unsuccessful with women. Many of them had liked him, and might have loved him if he had cared to make them, but until he met Bettina Dolce he had not cared.

There was about Bettina, however, a certain remoteness which puzzled him. She responded to his advances with girlish gayety, but her cool sweet glance held no hint of self-consciousness, and beyond a certain point of light flirtation he had, as yet, dared not go.

He pondered these things one morning as he worked on his delicate machine in the great shed with its wide opening toward the water.

Why had little Bettina erected a barrier? She knew nothing of the arts of sophisticated coquetry, so he absolved her from any intention to rouse his interest. Was she unawakened? Was there another man?

He laid down his pipe to think out that last startling proposition. There had been no men in her secluded life.

Except Anthony Blake! Gracious Peter, could it be Anthony? There came to Justin, suddenly, a vision of Bettina in the shadowy room. Of her childish dependence upon the doctor, of her little claims of intimacy, her evident preference for the older man's society, her vehement denial the night of the dinner that there could be anything but friendship between Anthony and Diana.

Putting, thus, two and two together, he decided that Bettina believed herself in love with Anthony. Yes, that was it—and Anthony—well, for Anthony there was just Diana!

There you had it, and the only way to save Bettina and, incidentally, himself from heartbreak was to take things into his own hands, and play Prince to this exquisite Cinderella.

Unconsciously his mind assumed a sort of King Cophetua attitude toward the charming Beggar Maid. He found himself humming:

"In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way——"

Justin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his pocket. There was no time like the present, and he at once went toward Diana's, "clothed all in leather," like the old man in the nursery rhyme.

He found Bettina in the garden. She wore a strong little suit of blue serge with a crimson silk scarf knotted under her sailor collar. On her fair head was a shady hat. She stood by the stone wall looking expectantly down the road. But it was not Justin whom she expected, although she smiled at him, and gave him her hand.

"Did you meet Miss Matthews?" she inquired.

"Miss Matthews?"

"You know. You met her the first time you saw me."

"I can only remember that time that I met—you."

She laughed. "How nicely you say it."

"But you do not take me seriously."

"Does anybody take you seriously?"

"Kind people do."

"And I'm not kind?"

"Not to me—you just give me remnants and fragments of your time. I have hardly seen you for three days."

"Nobody has seen me," she informed him. "I've been doing all sorts of stunts in the shops. I was in town yesterday with Mrs. Martens, and you should see my hats——"

"I'd rather see your hair. Do you know how lovely it is with the sunshine on it——"

"Silly—wait till you see my dream of a picture hat—with yellow roses—to be worn with a shadow lace robe over a primrose slip."

"White and gold—Sophie was foxy to choose that," he said.

"Foxy—why?"

"Oh, the pinks and blues don't suit you. You need the unusual tints. That amethyst frock you had on the other night fitted in with the twilight, and the old garden and the lilacs; and in the yellow and white you'll be a primrose, flashing in the sun."

"Mrs. Martens has the most wonderful taste," she informed him. "There's a tea-gown of white crape with a little lace wrap—I don't know when I'll wear it, but Mrs. Martens insisted—and a new gown for the yacht club dance to-morrow night,—and you should see my shoes—five pairs of them."

"Such richness!" He smiled into her eager eyes. "Did Diana help you choose?"

"Diana's away—on business in the city. That's why I'm free to do as I please to-day."

"Are you free to do as you please——?" He seized his opportunity. "Then come up to the shed and see my air-ship. We can have a little flight across the harbor."

She shook her head. "Oh, I can't. I have an engagement with Captain Stubbs and Miss Matthews. We are going fishing in the captain's boat, and have lunch on the rocks later."

Justin looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then he said, "Three's a crowd. You ought to have four."

"Are you asking—to be invited?"

"Please——"

"But it's Captain Stubbs' party."

"I am perfectly sure that if you'll give me a certificate of good character Captain Stubbs will take me aboard."

She seemed to be summing up the situation. "I'm not sure," she said, at last, "that you'd fit in——"

"Why not?"

"Oh, the captain's old-fashioned, and Miss Matthews is old-fashioned, and I love them both, and so I don't care. But you don't love them."

He flushed. "I see. You're afraid that I'll make them feel uncomfortable. I am sorry you should think that. I'm not quite a cad, you know."

There were sparks in his eyes. He wondered that he should be so angry. But he was desperately angry with this cool little creature who didn't seem to care.

And now she was passing frigid judgment on his blazing words. "Of course you aren't a cad. I didn't say you were. But you aren't like Bobbie Tucker or Dr. Blake. They have always known these people, and they understand them. There are no class distinctions in a town like this, you know——"

"Have I seemed such a prig to you?"

She cocked her head on one side and considered him, "Not since I talked to Mrs. Martens about you. She told me how nice you were in Germany."

In Germany; ye gods! Was he nice only in Germany?

He stared at her blankly. He had a feeling that he would like to shake her; that he would like to—kiss her.

In the midst of her conflicting emotions little Miss Matthews arrived, and behind her steamed Captain Stubbs.

Justin, murmuring inarticulately, acknowledged the introduction to the captain, and greeted Miss Matthews.

Miss Matthews was very prim and trim in a white shirt-waist and stiff collar. She had a gray sweater over her arm, and a green veil was tied over her soft felt hat. She carried in her hand a brown Boston bag, the contents of which she explained to Bettina.

"I told the captain I would bring some home-made pickles."

Justin gave immediate attention.

"Miss Matthews," he said, "do you mean to say that you three will eat fish chowder and home-made pickles, and that I shan't be there?"

The little captain, in a glow of hospitality, said heartily, "Now, look here; can't you come with us?"

Justin showed his white teeth in a flashing smile. "It's an invitation that I've been fishing for all the morning, but Miss Dolce won't ask me."

"Don't you want him?" the little captain demanded of Bettina.

"Of course," in the tone of one to whom it didn't really matter. "Perhaps he can help you with the boat, captain."

Justin, carrying Miss Matthews' bag, helping the captain over with the supplies, lifting Bettina over the side of the boat with strong arms which yearned to show their strength, was in a mental attitude far removed from his King Cophetua mood of the earlier morning. He was at this moment a slave chained to Bettina's chariot wheel. And the strange part of it was that he gloried in his chains! He realized that he was going out with her on a forced invitation, but he was going! And the sea was like sapphire, and the sun shone!

Little Miss Matthews, looking back afterward on that glorified fishing trip, was forced to confess that Justin left nothing undone for her which could be done. Never in her life had she been deferred to by such a charming youth, never had her little budget of small talk received such respectful consideration, never had she been waited on, hand and foot, by such a cavalier!

Rarely did Justin's eyes stray to where Bettina sat beside the captain, chatting to him in her confiding voice, making his old heart happy by her interest in his sea-seasoned reminiscences.

It was really a most altruistic performance. One might have imagined that for Justin there was just one woman in the world—Miss Matthews; and for Bettina, just one man—Captain Stubbs. Yet, as the little boat rounded the lighthouse point and came into the rougher waters outside, young hearts were thrilling to the sound of young voices, and the music of the spheres was being played to the accompaniment of beating waves.

When at last they anchored, the fishing was really incidental. To be sure it was exciting, and they had an excellent catch, but Bettina's hat was off and Justin could see her hair. And Justin, standing up in the bow of the boat with his line outflung, was, in Bettina's eyes, more than ever like a young Olympian god.

It was the same at lunch time. They landed on a crescent-shaped strip of beach, backed by rocky walls, where there was plenty of driftwood for their fire. There the captain gave his mind to the making of chowder, and Miss Matthews rendered expert service in the cutting up of onions and potatoes, and in the frying of salt pork.

Justin opened the pickle bottle and did other prosaic and ungodlike acts, and Bettina laid the table on the sands like a real girl instead of a transported nymph, yet each saw the other through a golden haze which magnified the most trivial act and made it important.

Thus, when Bettina set four blue bowls at exact geometric distances on the cloth, Justin thought not of the bowls, but of Bettina's slim white hands; and likewise Justin, gathering driftwood, commended himself to Bettina not for his industry, but for his swinging walk and square shoulders.

For several days Bettina had been heavy-hearted. She had not seen Anthony. He had called her up over the telephone, and had made his excuses; there was the little girl with the appendicitis and the old man with the pneumonia—how Bettina hated the repetition. He would come and see her as soon as possible, he promised, but he had not come.

Diana, too, had not been like herself. On the morning after Bettina's visit to Anthony's house she had not appeared until luncheon. She had looked like a ghost, and had been very busy all the afternoon. She had hinted at affairs which would take her to town for a time, and finally she had gone away. Even Mrs. Martens had seemed disturbed and restless. Hence Bettina had welcomed the invitation from Captain Stubbs. Justin's high spirits, his evident delight in her society, his anger at her rebuffs—these things soothed and flattered her. Above all there was the charm of his glorious youth. She found herself swayed to his mood. Might she not for one little fleeting moment dance to the tune that he piped?

Letting herself go, therefore, she was at luncheon bewildering in her beauty. Justin's mocking eyes grew tender as he watched her. Here was no pretty Beggar Maid for masculine condescension, but rather a little goddess to be put on a pedestal and worshiped.

Captain Stubbs and Miss Matthews, unconscious of the forces which were charging the air about them, ate their chowder and took their enjoyment placidly.

"A fish chowder," said the little captain, "never tastes so good in the house as it does out-of-doors, with the cod fresh caught, and with the smell of the sea for sauce."

Bettina passed her bowl for more.

"It is delicious," she said; "everything is—lovely."

"Isn't it?" said Justin. "There never was such a feast—there never was such a day——!"

Yet there had been many such days; there had been many such feasts. But not for them! It was the golden age of their existence. The moment of youth and joy, unmarred by disillusion.



CHAPTER X

STORM SIGNALS

The wind, rising, blew Miss Matthews' green veil into a long thin wisp which flapped toward the northwest.

The captain, noticing it, glanced over his shoulder.

"We'll have a storm before we know it," he said. "It's dark enough over there in the south——"

Above the horizon rose the clouds, black with wind; the waves began to murmur and run in, in long lines of white.

"There'll be no getting back now," said the captain.

Justin's eyes searched the land for shelter. Beyond the rocky wall was a hillside of hemlock, which formed part of the estate of a magnate from the West. Beyond the trees was a great house, shut up now, and in the hands of a caretaker. Nothing else seemed to offer refuge from the storm.

"What do you think, captain?" he asked. "Had we better try to make the house?"

"I've got my oilskins," the captain said. "I'll stay here, but perhaps you folks had better run in."

Miss Matthews protested. "I've lived too long on this coast to mind a storm. I'll wrap up in my rubber coat and let it rain. But we'd better get that child in somewhere; she's scared of storms."

"Are you?" Justin asked Bettina.

"If there's going to be wind," she said, "I'm awfully afraid."

"Then we'll run for it," he told her; "up the hill to the house."

As he helped her climb the rocks, they took a last glance back at the stolid pair who didn't mind storms. Captain Stubbs in brilliantly yellow new oilskins and Miss Matthews in a sad-colored waterproof coat sat side by side with their backs against the beached boat.

"Perhaps we should have stayed with them," said Bettina, doubtfully, as Justin drew her up to his level.

But Justin had no doubts. Ahead of them was the dimness of the hemlock forest; the solitude of the storm. He coveted the brief moments when they might be alone together.

"Come," he urged, and they entered upon the darkness of the wood.

As they sped along over the cushioned earth, Justin helped her strongly, half lifting her at times over the rough places.

"Are you afraid?" he asked her, and she shook her head.

With a roar and a rush the storm was upon them. For a few moments they were in the midst of chaos. The air was full of flying things, and the branches crashed and fell.

To Bettina, emotionally tense, the real world had disappeared. She was a disembodied spirit, floating through infinite space with another spirit as joyous, as exalted, as triumphant as her own.

When he asked her again, "Are you afraid?" and she again shook her head, it came to her, suddenly, that she was not afraid because she was with him. She felt no wonder that it was so. In this wild world there was no place for wonder. She and Justin were laughing madly as they raced. Her hair, loosed by the wind, streamed out behind her. Once it caught on a button of Justin's coat, and held her so close to him that, when he unwound it, she felt the quickened beating of his heart.

As they again sped on, she felt as if never before had she been alive in such a radiant wonderful sense.

"Are you afraid?" he asked for the third time, bending down to catch her answer.

"It's glorious," she panted. Then as the rain came, he shielded her with his arm, and shouted:

"We'll have to make a dash through the open; here's the house ahead!"

The great house was closed and deserted, but they found a cloistered porch from which they could look out on the storm.

Below them the trees were whipped and bent by the gale. Against the horizon the sea rose like a great gray wall. Straining their eyes, they could catch a glimmer of the captain's yellow coat on the strip of sand.

"The worst of the wind is over," said Justin; "we were lucky to escape the heavy rain."

Bettina, who was braiding her hair, looked up at him. "Wasn't it wonderful down there in the wood?"

"Did you think it wonderful?"

Something in his eyes made her say, hastily "I've never been out in a storm before."

He did not reply at once. He was watching her slender fingers twist the shining strands.

"Let me do that for you," he said, suddenly.

"No, oh, no——"

"Why not?"

"Because." She walked away from him, and seated herself on a marble bench under one of the closed windows.

He sat down beside her. "I didn't mean that impertinently; truly I did not. I used to braid my little sister's hair. She was lame and I took care of her, and, as I watched you, I thought of—my little sister."

"Tell me about her."

"There isn't much to tell, except that when I was a great hulking youngster, with only her to love—she died——"

"Oh,—I'm so sorry——"

He went on slowly, still watching her busy fingers "Since then I have never had a friend. Not the kind she was. Why, she used to love to listen to my boy's talk—of how I was going to be great, of how I was going to conquer the world,—and she has been dead ten years—and I have done nothing."

It was a new Justin who spoke in this fashion. To Bettina he had always seemed as light as air, and she had enjoyed his frivolity, but now she felt something more than enjoyment,—a yearning to be of use to this big boy who was all alone, and who missed his little sister.

Surely to be his friend need not interfere in any way with Anthony's claims. She loved Anthony and was going to marry him, of course. But friendship and love were different things. Why, Mrs. Martens was married, and she had been Justin's friend in Germany.

She spoke her thought. "But Mrs. Martens?"

"She was a dear—but she is older than I—and I stood a bit in awe of her—she sympathized with me—but she could not dream with me, and I wanted some one to share my dreams."

Bettina's blue eyes were wistful. What a wonderful thing it would be to share somebody's dreams. She was perfectly sure that she did not share Anthony's. He had never told her of his dreams. Perhaps he didn't have any. His life was so practical and full of work, and then he was old—oh, yes, indeed, he was older than Mrs. Martens—and Justin had said that Sophie was too old to understand.

She found herself asking, "What were your dreams?"

"Shan't I bore you?"

"No—please——"

"Well, there was one dream which my little sister and I used to discuss as I braided her hair at night. It was a dream that some day I should be great. She had a different idea of greatness from mine, and we used to argue the question. I don't think she ever wanted me to be President of the United States or to hold high office; she wanted me to do something which would help humanity. She used to wish that I might preach or teach; she was such a good little thing. And I would tell her that none of these vocations were for me; I must win fame in a different way. I wanted to invent something which would make the world stare. Perhaps that's the reason I took up aviation after she died. I thought I might make some great advance on the inventions of other men. But the other men made them first, you see, and I've just frivoled and played. Yet, as I saw you braiding your hair, it brought back my little sister so vividly, and I wondered what she would think of me—now."

For the first time in her life her heart was stirred by the maternal tenderness which is the heritage of good women. Her timid hand touched his sleeve, lightly.

"I am sure," said her little voice, unsteadily, "that if she knew you now, she would think you were—very nice."

"You darling," he was saying in his heart, but he dared not say it with his lips. And he went on as calmly as he could.

"I wish I could make you see my little sister as I knew her. She was such a pale little thing, with pale gold hair, and a little narrow face, and pale blue eyes. When I began to read Tennyson, I found my little sister again in 'Elaine'—and do you know, I was half glad she didn't live to grow up. Some man might have hurt her as Lancelot hurt Elaine. I know I haven't realized her dreams for me—but I've tried to hold on a bit to her ideal of goodness, and it has kept me from things which might have made me less of a man——"

She was thrilled as she had never been. Justin began to loom up in her mind's eye as the Knight of the Tender Heart—that was what Sophie had called him. And how wonderful that he should be telling her all this!

"Then," he continued, "the money came to me, and since then I've been a butterfly. I have not made good use of my wealth. I have needed a friend, you see, to help me make my dreams come true."

He looked down at her. "Would you?" he asked.

"Be your friend?"

"Yes."

"Oh, but I'm not good enough. I've always been a little selfish thing, except with mother. I loved her and I wasn't selfish with her. But I've wanted a good time, and I haven't cared for anything but my own pleasure. I'm not like your little sister, you see. I'm just a butterfly, too."

"Oh, you—you're an angel," ardently.

Again she was thrilled. Anthony had never said such things to her. Anthony had called her a child, and he had not needed her. And Justin wanted her friendship! All her awakened womanhood rose to meet his demand.

So intent was she on her thought that she did not feel the cold. But her lips were blue, and she shivered as the wind swept around the corner.

Justin jumped at once to his feet.

"I'm a brute to keep you here. There must be some one around the place who can take us in."

He left her, to come back presently with the news that there was a man down at the stables, and that there was a fire in the harness room. He brought a rain coat, and wrapped her in it, scolding himself all along the way for his neglect of her comfort.

The stables of the Western magnate were vast and wonderful. They had been divorced somewhat from their original use as a place for horses, two-thirds of the space being given up to motor cars and electrics. But the riding horses were in their stalls, and, as Bettina entered, their heads went up.

She stopped to pet them, then the groom led the way to the harness room.

It was a picturesque place, with its lacquered leather, its shining brass, its racing trophies, blue ribbons, gold-handled whips and crops, silver cups and medals.

"I'll telephone for my car," Justin said, "and send a boy down to Captain Stubbs and Miss Matthews. They'll probably go back in the boat, now that the storm is over."

With the message sent, and the smiling groom, pleased with Justin's generous tip, dismissed, the two were again alone.

"This is better," said Justin, as they settled themselves in front of the fire. "Now you'll get some color in your cheeks."

With her chin on her hand, she said slowly, "Do you know that nobody ever asked me to be his friend before?"

"That's luck for me. There'll be no one else to share——"

She glanced up at him with enchanting shyness. "The trouble with most men is, I imagine, that they don't want friendship—they want love, and that isn't easy for a woman to give, is it?"

Silence, then at last, uncertainly, "I suppose not."

"Any man can fall in love with a woman," she informed him, "but it seems to me that it must take certain kinds of men and women to be friends. That's why it seems so wonderful. Why, even if I married some one else, I could still be your friend, couldn't I?"

"Ye-es. Oh, yes, of course."

"Perhaps that's what I've missed all my life—the chance to really inspire some one. You know it's nice to feel that you're helping. And some men are so self-sufficient, so secure. You wouldn't feel that you'd dare to suggest. You'd only be a child to them—and while it might be nice to marry a man like that, it would be nice, too, to have the other kind for a friend."

Of all the bewildering little creatures! If she married some other man, forsooth! He set his teeth. Well, she shouldn't marry any other man.

"Look here," he asked, suddenly, "have you ever been in love?"

She nodded, all rosy color and drooped lashes. The unexpectedness of her answer made him hesitate, but finally he ventured, "How did it feel?"

She considered gravely. "Why, it's comfortable to know that you'll always have some one to take care of you, some one who's tender and good—too good, perhaps——"

Justin was perplexed. She had spoken in the present tense. Was it possible that her fancy was really held by Anthony? Had their wild race in the storm meant nothing to her? To him it had seemed a sort of spiritual mating, with the storm crashing out a brilliant bridal chorus.

He leaned forward. "What you're talking of isn't love," he said, almost roughly. "Love doesn't mean being comfortable; it doesn't mean being petted and coddled like a pussy cat, or being looked after like a child. It means what it meant to Romeo when he killed himself for love of Juliet. It means what it meant to Orpheus when he followed Eurydice to the underworld. It means what it will mean to me when I have found the one woman—that I'll work for her, live for her, die for her, and count the future blank if she does not love me in return."

"How wonderful!" she whispered after a moment "How wonderful—to be loved—like that——"

His heart leaped. Some day he would make it wonderful! But not now. It was too soon to say the things he had to say.

"The most wonderful thing right now," he said, "is that you are going to be—my friend."

She responded radiantly. "It will be lovely to have a—big brother."

"It will be lovelier to have—a little sister."

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, laughing lightly. And just then the smiling groom came to say that the gentleman's car was at the door.

The rain had stopped, but storm signals still showed in the south where the heavy clouds hung over the horizon. Overhead the sun shone, making kaleidoscope effects of the spring flowers in the checkered beds. Against the gray wall of the terraced garden the peach trees had been trained in foreign fashion and were full of rosy bloom.

Bettina, coming out of the darkened stable, opened her eyes wide.

"What a different world it seems," she said, "from the one we left in the storm."

Justin helped her into the car. "We'll reach home before the next storm breaks," he remarked, as he took his seat beside her, "but there's trouble ahead."

To him the words held no sinister meaning, nor to Bettina. In their hearts was no fear of the future, nor of the storms which might some day wreck their happiness.



CHAPTER XI

THE WHITE MAIDEN

Bettina, lonely in her tower, had often looked across enviously to the brilliantly lighted yacht club on the nights of the weekly dances.

And now she was going to a yacht club dance with Justin in attendance, and with Sophie for chaperon; with Sara and Doris and Sara's brother Duke to be added to the party when they reached the club-house pier.

The question of Bettina's gown had been a puzzling one. Sophie had brought out everything of her own, and Diana, white-faced after a sleepless night, had tried to put her mind on the matter.

"These are all too elaborate," she said; "she is such a child. Perhaps it will be best for her to get some new things now, and if you will help her choose them, it will be a great favor to me, Sophie."

Sophie came over and kissed her. "Poor dear," she murmured.

Diana leaned back against her friend. "Don't," she said in a stifled voice. "I can't bear it."

They clung together for a moment, then Diana went on steadily, "I am going to town for a few days, Sophie—I must get away for a bit, and if you don't mind, you can take Bettina in while I am gone and get her things. She insists that they shall not be gifts from me. She says that she's already under great obligations—and that her own little bank account is sufficient for her needs. Then, too, she can use all of her new things in her trousseau, and it does seem rather sensible, doesn't it?"

Diana had said nothing to Sophie of the meeting with Anthony in the empty house. It was an experience too sacred for discussion. But Sophie had guessed much. Anthony's continued absence, Diana's restlessness, her haggard eyes, her insistent tenderness and care of Bettina, showed the sympathetic and anxious friend that something unusual had occurred, and that Diana was fighting a tremendous battle alone.

"Just let things run on here," Diana said, "as they always do. You can take my place as Bettina's chaperon, and Delia will take care of the house. I shan't be missed, and I can—get a perspective on the situation."

Sophie protested. "It's too great a strain on you—you'd better send Bettina away—she and I could have a little trip somewhere."

"No, it is I who must go," Diana insisted. "Bettina must get acquainted with Anthony's friends. If he is going to marry her, he must be proud of her. You know that, Sophie," sharply, "it won't do for him to take a girl as the mistress of his home whom nobody ever heard of, and who could be criticized."

Sophie rubbed her fingers lightly across Diana's forehead. "You think only of Anthony—do you never think of yourself?"

Diana stood up. "It's because I think of how foolish I have been," she said, "that I can get no rest. I should never have come back to America, Sophie."

"But, dearest-dear, how could you know?"

"I couldn't know. But, oh, I wish that I had never come."

Thus it happened that Sophie and Bettina had gone into town, and the primrose gown and the little serge suit and the new hats and the five pairs of shoes, together with a wonderful creation for the yacht club dance, had been sent out, and tried on, and pronounced perfect.

Sophie's taste had supplemented Bettina's meager funds. From her own store of exquisite laces and brocades, of buckles and bows, she had added finishing touches to frocks which might otherwise have been commonplace.

When, therefore, on the day after her adventure with Justin Bettina took off her wrap in the cloak room of the yacht club, Sara Duffield drew a sharp breath of amazement.

"Will you look at that gown, Doris?" she said to her placid friend. "Would any one but an artist have dared to put on that side sash of rose-colored tulle with the silver tassel, and the wide collar of silver lace?"

Justin Ford, knowing nothing of dressmakers, was none the less aware of the inspired creation.

"And I said yesterday that you could not wear pink! But this isn't pink, is it? It's a rosy cloud on a May morning."

"Do you really like it?" demanded Bettina.

"I love—it."

Bettina laughed light-heartedly. It was great fun to have such a friendly understanding with this very charming young man. She wondered how she had quite—dared. Things seemed so different under this blaze of light. Had she really promised to be a "little sister" to this most distinguished gentleman?

They had come over in Bobbie's motor boat, and just before they reached the club-house pier, Justin had said, "The first dance is mine, you know. I'd like the second and the third, but I suppose that is forbidden. But you must give me all you can. I feel that I have special brotherly privileges."

She danced exquisitely, her little satin-shod feet slipping silently through all the difficult twists and turns of the syncopated modern dances. Justin, guiding her expertly, knew that many glances were being leveled at them, knew that questions were being asked, that Bettina was being weighed in the social balance by the men and women who could make her success secure.

When he gave her over, presently, to another partner he became aware of undercurrents. The girl with whom he danced shrugged her shoulders when he spoke with enthusiasm of Bettina's beauty.

"Sara was telling me," she said, "that she used to live in the old Lane mansion, and that Diana Gregory has taken her up."

"Sara?"

Justin looked across the room to where Sara was dancing with Bobbie. And he made up his mind that before the evening was ended he should have something to say to the haughty little lady in blue.

His opportunity came, presently, when he claimed Sara for a Spanish variation of the ever-popular Boston, in which his step particularly suited hers.

"Look here," he remarked, as they swayed to the music, "it's up to us, Sara, to see that Bettina makes a hit."

Sara, tilting her chin, demanded, "Why?"

"Because she is Diana Gregory's friend, and Diana's anxious to have people like her."

"Why?"

He gazed down at the irritating profile.

"You know why," he said with great distinctness. "Diana Gregory has a big heart, and this child has had a hard time. Diana wants to make her happy——"

"But why is Diana so interested, Justin? There are plenty of lonely and unhappy girls. So why should Diana especially pick out Bettina? She's years younger than Diana, and they really haven't much in common."

"She's very sweet——" Justin was quite unaware of the intense fervor of his tones.

Sara's eyes narrowed to little flashing points, as she asked, "Are you in love with her?"

Their eyes met. "Oh, Sara, Sara," he teased, "do you expect me to wear my heart upon my sleeve?"

"I expect you to keep it from wandering toward the daughter of an Italian singer," she said, sharply. "I always fancied that you had rather decided ideas about family, Justin."

"If you mean that I'm proud of my Knickerbocker ancestry, I am," he told her; "just as you are proud of your Pilgrim forefathers. But Bettina Dolce's blood is bluer than any that ran in the veins of our middle-class English and Dutch grandsires. Her father was a Venetian, and Bettina has the beauty of those lovely ladies of old Italy."

Sara's beauty was of an essentially modern type. "I don't see," she said, somewhat resentfully, "why I should be expected to fight the social battles of a girl who is really nothing to me."

"Surely not," easily, "but I rather fancy that any one who snubs Bettina will have to reckon with Diana—and with me——"

Sara's lashes hid her sharp little eyes. She was thinking rapidly. She did not care to offend Diana—but more, oh, much more than that, she did not care to offend Justin.

She capitulated pensively. "Why, Justin, I don't know why you are calling me to account in this way. I'm sure I'm perfectly willing to help things along."

"Good," was his delighted comment, and after that he danced with a heart as light as his heels.

When the music stopped, Duke Duffield made his way toward them. "Oh, look here," he said to his sister; "why didn't you present me sooner to Miss Dolce? Gee, Sara, she's some dream—and her dance card was filled before I could get to it."

Justin smiled at this slangy confirmation of his own opinion. He drifted presently through the room, looking for Bettina, and just as the music began again its rhythmical beat he saw her.

Far at the other end of the room she was dancing with Anthony Blake!

Bettina had never been so happy. Anthony's coming had pleased her. He had half promised that he might come, but there had been, as always, the possibility in the background that he would be kept away by some inconsiderate patient. But now he was here, and she was to have her next dance with Justin. Could anything be lovelier than to spend her evening thus between lover and friend, having Anthony's strength and kindliness to make her feel secure, and Justin's glowing youth to match her own.

She decided that when she and Anthony were alone she would tell him about the race in the storm, and about her friendly compact with Justin. She was never going to keep anything from Anthony. Why, he was the best man in the whole wide world—the very best.

She looked up at him with her eyes like stars and he, meeting that radiant glance, asked, "Are you happy, child?"

She blushed and nodded. "Very, very happy!"

And after that she danced in dreamy silence until Justin came for her.

At supper, Anthony claimed Bettina as a matter of course, leaving Mrs. Martens to Justin. The four of them, with Bobbie and Doris and Sara and her brother ate at a little table on the club-house porch. In the pale light of the lanterns Bettina's beauty was more than ever ethereal.

Justin, watching her with puzzled eyes, took note of her dependence upon Anthony, of her confiding manner, of her undoubted interest in him. Now and then she flashed a glance at Justin, and he was forced to content himself with such occasional crumbs from the queen's table.

But he grew restless and uneasy. Anthony easily dominated the little group. It was in such moments that he was at his best. His brilliant wit, his forceful personality, had never been displayed to better advantage.

Justin, beside him, felt young and crude. He told himself that he had nothing to fear. Everybody knew that Anthony cared only for Diana. Yet, even as he comforted himself, he saw Bettina's look of triumphant pride as Anthony brought a clever story to its climax, and his heart raged in impotent jealousy.

They all went back together in Bobbie's motor boat, and in the darkness Justin managed to say to Bettina, "So you've deserted me."

"Oh, no," she protested, "but you see I couldn't desert—Anthony."

"Has he, then, the first claim?" his voice shook as his dull resentment flamed.

She hesitated. "He—has been so kind—and he's a sort of guardian—you know——"

She dared not tell him more than that, for had she not promised Diana that she would not? Her nature was so crystal clear that she would have been glad to set things straight, to tell him that she was going to marry Anthony, but that she would always be his friend. It was such a perfect arrangement; he would surely understand.

She sighed a little, wishing that she had nothing to hide. And with her sigh his moodiness vanished.

"If it's because he's your guardian, all right—but I'm not going to give you up always so easily."

"Why must you give me up at all?" she challenged.

"Why?" he echoed. "There is no 'why.' I shall never give you up."

At Diana's door she said "Good-bye." "It has been the loveliest evening of my life," she told him. "I shall never forget."

Anthony came in, ostensibly to telephone, but really to have a moment alone with Bettina. Sophie, with sympathetic insight, made the excuse of a letter, which Anthony could mail, and withdrew to write it.

In the dimly-lighted music room, Anthony said, "You must forgive me, dear child, for seeming to neglect you, but I've been such a busy man."

"I know." She looked up at him. "But it seems nice to have you now."

"And it seems nice to have you."

He smiled at her, but he did not touch her. Somehow since that night in the empty house with Diana he had felt that there were things which must come slowly. If he was to play the lover to little Betty, it must be when he could shut out from his heart the image of that pale tall woman in the lilac-scented room.

But Bettina missed nothing from his manner. She felt for him a grateful affection, an unbounded respect, but her wish for impulsive demonstration was gone. She was content to be near him, to know that he cared for her—beyond that she had no conscious desires.

Still smiling at her, he took from his pocket a little box. "I haven't been too busy to remember that I wanted to give you this," he said, and handed it to her.

Set in a slender ring were three great diamonds, and for a guard there was a little circlet of sapphires.

"Perhaps you won't care to wear it now," he said, as she gave a gasp of delight, "but I wanted you to have it. I wanted it to be the sign and seal of the bond which is between us."

She came to him, then all gratitude and clinging sweetness, and put up her face to be kissed.

He touched his lips to her forehead. And he said he was glad that he had made her happy. But he did not tell her that he had forced himself to plight thus, tangibly, his troth to her that there might be no escape from the path of honor which he must follow.

Little Bettina, alone that night in her room, took off the rosy dress and laid it on her bed. Then, enveloped in her long white motor coat, she went out on her porch, and curled up in one of the big chairs. Across the harbor the lights were out at the yacht club. Between the Neck and the main shore little starlike points showed where the lanterns were swung on the sleeping boats. It was long after midnight, and the cold morning mists were already coming in.

But she could not sleep. She had so many wonderful things to think of. A few weeks ago she had been a little lonely child with no one who cared whether she lived or died—now she was rich in love and friendship.

She turned the ring on her finger. How strange it seemed to think that in a few short months she would be—married. That she would belong to Anthony until death should part them.

Her breath came quickly. She stood up, slim and white in her long coat. Then suddenly she slipped to her knees.

"Oh, please, please," she prayed, with her face upturned to the waning stars, "make me worthy of his love. Make me worthy to be his wife."



CHAPTER XII

YOUTH AND BEAUTY

It was two days after the dance at the yacht club that Diana came home. She arrived late and unexpectedly. Bettina had gone to bed, and the only light which burned to welcome her was Sophie's, on the third floor.

Diana paid her cabman, and set her key in the lock, to be welcomed by Peter Pan's purring note as she opened the door.

She stooped and picked up the big cat. "Dear Peter," she whispered.

Peter, held against her heart, sang his little song of content, and, standing for a moment in the darkness, Diana fought for self-control before she went up to Sophie's room.

Mrs. Martens, wrapped in her gray kimono, was writing letters. She looked up with a glad cry as Diana entered.

"Why, Diana," she said, "you darling!"

"I didn't telegraph," Diana said, as she kissed her friend, "for there wasn't any use. I had my key, and I knew I could get a cab——"

"You're tired, dearest-dear." Sophie's worried eyes noted the weariness of gesture and tone, and the shadows under Diana's eyes as she untied her veil and took off her hat.

"Yes, I'm tired, dead tired." Diana dropped into a chair, and laid her head against the cushioned back.

Sophie bent over her. "You're not comfortable," she said; "come on down to your room and take a hot bath, and I'll heat a cup of milk, and then you can rest all warm and comfy, and I'll rub your head."

"Sophie," said Diana, suddenly, "I wonder if I ever rubbed anybody's head?"

"Of course," said Sophie; "what makes you say that?"

"Because I've been thinking a lot since I went to town, and it seems to me that all my life I've just taken and have not given. I took Anthony's love—I've taken your service——" She held out her hand. "Oh, I've been a selfish pig, Sophie, darling."

Sophie took the extended hand and patted it. "What a silly thing to say," soothingly; "you've always been everything—to me, Diana. You've done so much for me that I can never repay."

"Oh, yes, in giving big things—but it's the little things that count—like heating cups of milk and rubbing people's heads."

She said it whimsically, but there were tears in her eyes.

"You come right down and go to bed," Sophie advised. "And we can talk all about it afterward."

Diana, propped up among her pillows, watched her friend as she flitted like a gray moth about the room, intent on various comforting offices, and when at last Sophie brought to her a steaming cup Diana said, "Do you know, Sophie, I've always thought myself a rather superior person."

"Well, you are," Sophie agreed.

"I'm not. Oh, I've made up my mind about things at last, and I know that it hasn't been Bettina's happiness, nor Anthony's happiness that I have been thinking about, but my own.

"If I had not stayed on after I found out the state of things here," she continued, "Anthony would have learned to care for Betty—every man loves youth and beauty——"

Sophie shook her head. "It takes us women all of our lives to learn that it is not for the red of our lips or the blue of our eyes that we are loved——"

"Oh, but you know it is the beautiful women who draw men——"

"But it is not the beautiful women who hold them. I'll set any demure little soul with a loving heart against all the faultlessly-regular -splendidly-null persons in the world when it comes to keeping the affections of a husband—and what has Bettina that she can give Anthony to take the place of the things which he has loved in you?"

"She has youth."

"How you harp on that string! You have a mind and soul which meets Anthony's. And your beauty equals hers. You must not forget that, Diana."

"I don't forget it. I know what I mean to Anthony. But Bettina will mean other things to him. And who shall say which of us would make the better wife?

"Oh, I've thought these things all out, and I know that I could never be happy, Sophie, if my happiness were founded on the hurt heart of that child. And so—I am going away—and let things go back to where they would have been if I had never come——"

"Do you think they can—ever go back, Diana?"

Diana, remembering Anthony's face in the moonlight, hesitated, then she said, bravely, "I shall not ask myself that question, Sophie. I shall simply do the thing which will seem right to me, and I am sure it is right for me to go away."

"And Bettina?"

"She must stay here with you until she is married. You won't mind, will you? There will be plenty of things to do. You can help with her wedding outfit. And after they are—married, you and I will go back—to Berlin. No, we won't, Sophie. We'll go to the desert, and down the Nile, and we'll go to Japan, and see Fujiyama; and we'll visit the temples in China, and we'll find out from some of those old Buddhists how they acquire—peace——"

"We will go to the ends of the earth if you wish—but there's only one place that I shall ask you to take me, Diana."

"Where, dear heart?"

"To that quiet spot over there in Germany, where the big cross stands up against the sky——"

"Sophie—of course you shall go there, dear."

Mrs. Martens knelt by the bed. "I've been thinking of my lover, too, while you've been away. We have each lost the man who made the world a wonderful place—henceforth you and I must live among the shadows—but because we have each other, it shall not be quite so hard."

It was a long time before they came back to the question of Diana's departure.

"But what excuse can you give for going now, Diana?"

"My health," said Diana, promptly. "Everybody knows that I first went to Germany for the baths, and I can say what is true,—that the dampness here disagrees with me, with my throat."

"But where will you go?"

"To the mountains; oh, Sophie, I shall lift up my eyes to the hills, and hope for strength——"

Out of the ensuing silence came the sound of a little tap at the door.

"Is Diana there?" asked Bettina on the other side. "I thought I heard her voice."

As Bettina came in, the radiance of youth shone from within and round about her. She kissed Diana. "Oh, so many things have happened," rapturously, "since you went away. Do you want me to tell you about them?"

"You blessed baby," said Diana, and it seemed to Sophie that in her voice was a note of sincere affection.

Bettina curled herself up on the foot of Diana's bed. "Well, in the first place," she said, "Anthony gave me a ring—a lovely ring, and a little guard to wear with it."

Diana did not flinch. "And why aren't you wearing your lovely ring," she asked, "for all the world to see?"

"Oh, but you said I mustn't," Bettina told her, "and so I keep it here."

She tugged at a slender chain which hung around her neck, and brought forth from beneath the embroidered thinness of her gown the two rings, which gave out flashing lights as she bent toward Diana.

Diana did not touch them. "They're lovely," she said, steadily; "aren't they, Sophie?"

"I'm glad he didn't give me pearls," Bettina went on, as Mrs. Martens exclaimed at their beauty, "because pearls mean tears."

"I've always worn pearls," said Diana.

"Oh, but not as love gifts," said Bettina, quickly. "It's only when your lover gives you a pearl that you weep—my mother's gift from my father was a great pearl—and when—he went away—she dropped it—into the sea.

"And I didn't blame her." Bettina was swinging her own rings back and forth, and they gave out a silvery tinkle like a chime of fairy bells. "I didn't blame her, although the pearl was worth a great deal of money and we were poor. I shouldn't want a ring after a man had ceased to love me, would you?"

"Of course not," said Diana, "and now—tell me, what were the other nice things which happened while I was away?"

"Oh," Bettina laughed, "I went fishing with Captain Stubbs and Miss Matthews, and Justin——"

"Justin?"

"Yes. Justin Ford. He invited himself. I told Mrs. Martens when I came home that I tried not to have him go, but he would, and it stormed—— Oh, well, we had a lovely time."

Somehow she had found it hard to tell Mrs. Martens, as she was finding it hard to tell Diana, just what had made the day so lovely. And as for her compact of friendship, she would tell Anthony but no other.

"Then there was the yacht club dance," she continued, "and oh, Diana, you should have seen my gown—it was a dream."

Sophie confirmed her verdict. "She was lovely in it, Diana," she said, "and everybody is talking of the success she made."

"And Anthony came," said Bettina, "and when we reached home he gave me the ring, and yesterday I had a long ride with him; oh, yes, and the day before, Justin and Sara and Doris and I had lunch on Bobbie's boat."

"I thought Bobbie's boat was in the yard for repairs?"

"It is," said Bettina, "and that's the fun of it. He's living on board, and yesterday he and Justin looked up and saw me on the porch, and they insisted on having a lunch party, and Bobbie made his man get up a perfectly wonderful little lunch, and he telephoned for the other girls, and Duke, and we climbed the ladder and ate up there in the air, and Sophie chaperoned us from your front porch."

"They wanted me to climb the ladder too," said Sophie, "but I told them I would be a little angel up aloft, and play propriety at a safe distance. It's a good thing the yacht yard happens to be at the foot of your rocks, Diana, or I'm afraid Bettina would have gone unchaperoned. It's a dizzy height up that ladder."

"And Bobbie sent things up to her in a basket," Bettina related; "we let down a piece of hammock rope, and we tied the basket to it."

Diana, listening to the light chatter, felt set apart by the tragedy of her own unhappiness. Once she would have enjoyed an escapade like the lunch party; now she was glad that she could go away—and leave it all behind her and perhaps—forget.

"Bobbie is such a funny fellow"—Bettina was still swinging the tinkling rings—"and he's awfully in love with Doris. And Doris worships him, and it makes Sara furious."

"But, my dear, Sara isn't the least bit in love with Bobbie."

"I know, but she thinks Doris is so silly to let Bobbie see—but that's just what Bobbie adores in her. He likes to be worshiped, and he's positively puffed up with pride like a pouter pigeon because he's going to marry Doris."

"Then it's settled?" Diana asked.

"Yes. It seems he proposed on the night of the yacht club dance, and yesterday at lunch Bobbie announced it, and he blushed and Doris blushed—but really it was awfully sweet, Diana—they are so happy."

"At first I thought Bobbie liked Sara," Bettina stated, later.

"Oh, no." Diana laughed. "It's Justin, you know, with Sara."

The flashing rings tinkled, tinkled. Bettina's eyes were on them.

"Oh, are they—engaged?"

"Oh, no; it's just a friendship, I fancy."

So? Other girls were his friends! Bettina's head went up, and she slipped the rings back in their hiding place.

"They've always known each other," Diana explained. "You see Sara was a sharp-tongued little girl, and Justin could get along with her better than the other boys because of his easy-going ways. And he gets along with her now, but usually it is a sort of armed truce."

Bettina felt better, but needing further assurance, she ventured, "I suppose he has a sort of brotherly feeling for her."

It was Sophie who answered that question.

"No, he hasn't. Justin adores the memory of his own little sister. She was a dear child and lame. And she was about as like Sara, I imagine, as a white dove is like a peacock. Justin has often told me that when he marries he wants to find a woman to whom he can tell his dreams as he told them to his little sister—it is perhaps because he has failed to find such a woman that he is unmarried."

It seemed to Bettina, suddenly, that all the stars sang! "Oh, it's such a lovely world"—she was all aglow—"and you've made it lovely for me, Diana, by having me here, and doing wonderful things for me."

"I want you to stay for a long time, dear, until you are married. But you'll forgive me if I go away and leave you alone with Sophie for a while?"

"Oh, must you go away again?"

"Yes. I'm not well. This air doesn't agree with—my throat," Diana stammered, not caring to meet the clear eyes.

"Oh, but I'm afraid that I'm terribly in the way," Bettina said distressfully. "You'll want Mrs. Martens to go with you. You mustn't have her stay on my account. I can go back to my rooms with Miss Matthews. Really I can—I shouldn't mind."

"My dear, I should mind very much." Diana reached out her hand to her. "Don't make me unhappy by taking it that way—I want you here."

"But you've done enough for me, putting yourself out in this way——"

"I have done only the things that I wanted to do. And now don't make me unhappy by suggesting that you won't keep poor Sophie company. What would she do without you?"

Bettina looked from one to the other. "Are you very sure you shouldn't go away together, if it weren't for me?"

"Very sure—I should bore her terribly."

They all laughed, and Bettina said, "Of course I know you're doing it all for my sake——"

"And for Anthony," said Diana, softly; "for the sake of my old friend Anthony."

"How wonderful your friendship is," said Bettina, softly. "It makes me believe in all friendship, Diana."

A little later she slid down from the bed. "You're tired and I'm keeping you up. I'll run along."

But Diana held her for a moment.

"Anthony will soon want to be going into the big house—when will you be ready, Bettina?"

"Oh, not yet," said Bettina, breathlessly, "not yet. I'd rather wait. Don't you think it will be best to wait?"

"Why?"

"Oh," her cheeks flamed, "I don't know why—only I don't want to get married—for a long time, Diana."

Diana looked at her with puzzled eyes. There was some change in the child which she could not fathom. What had happened to little Bettina in the short time since she had been away? She would ask Sophie—she would ask—Anthony.

In the adjoining room the telephone rang. Sophie, going to answer it, came back with the announcement, "It's Anthony. He wanted to know if you had returned. He needs you at the hospital. That little girl with the appendicitis is very much worse. But I told him that you had just reached home, and that you were so tired, and it was so late——"

"Sophie, how could you? Tell him I'll come. Ask him to send his car for me. Bettina, dear, hand me my slippers, and help me with my hair."

Bettina was shivering and white. "Is it the girl Anthony operated on?" she asked.

"Yes. Sophie, I'll wear the white serge. It's the easiest to get into, and my long coat——"

Bettina's shaking voice went on: "Wouldn't it be—dreadful—if anything happened? Wouldn't it be dreadful—if she should die?"

Sophie laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Help Diana now, dear," she advised; "we'll talk about it afterward."



CHAPTER XIII

HER LETTER TO ANTHONY

Diana never forgot that ride in the dark to Harbor Light. It was a clear night, with the sea like a sheet of silver under the moon. The big building, which loomed up, at last, before her, seemed, with its yellow-lighted windows, like some monster of giant size, gazing wide-eyed upon the waters.

The gardens, through which she passed, were heavy with the scent of hyacinths; the slight wash of the waves on the beach only emphasized the stillness.

As she drove up to the doorway, two night nurses flitted through the corridor, ghost-like in their white uniforms.

Then came Anthony. His face looked worn and worried.

"We couldn't save her, Diana," he said, tensely.

"Oh, the poor little thing!"

"We made a fight for it. I sent for you because if she roused I wanted you to be there."

"If you had telephoned sooner."

"I could not. The change was very sudden." He flung himself into a chair. "Oh, what is all my skill worth, Diana, when I couldn't save that child?"

She had seen him in such moods before, when he had felt powerless against all the opposing forces of disease and death.

But she did not care that others should see him. It was enough that she should know that this great doctor Anthony had his weaknesses. The rest of the world should not know it.

"Come out into the garden," she coaxed; "the air will do you good."

As they walked up and down the garden paths he gave her more definite details. "She did not know that she was going. There was no reason to trouble her gentle soul with fears. And so, at last, when she drifted off into the silence, she was smiling."

"And I am sure that she was still smiling when on the other side she found Love waiting."

"How wonderfully you put it, Di."

"It is not because I put it that way; it is because it is wonderful. Do you know, Anthony, that has always been my idea of heaven—as a place where Infinite Love waits. If that little child had lived she would have faced a future of loneliness—now she will never be lonely—never sick—never unhappy."

"But she wanted to live."

"But she didn't know life, Anthony—as some of us know it, as a place of unfulfilled dreams——"

They had reached the beach, and the track of the moon spread out before them, ending only at the horizon.

"She followed the path o' the moon," said Diana, softly, "a little white soul in a silver boat. Death is a great adventure, Anthony."

"Sometimes I feel as if I were merely a longshoreman, who helps to load the boats as they start on that great adventure——"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, we doctors see so much of pain which we cannot ease, so much misery which we cannot prevent. We see the innocent suffering for the guilty—the weak bearing the burdens which belong to the strong—and even if we try our hardest we can't change these things—and the boats still go sailing out to the Unknown——"

"Anthony, I wish I might be sure of one thing——"

"What, dear girl——?"

"That you would never change your present point of view. So many doctors lose faith in human nature because they see only the diseased side, and their vision becomes distorted. And, losing their faith in man, they lose faith in God. The thing which has always made you, in my eyes, a great man as well as a great surgeon has been the fact that you have seemed to understand that you were working with Infinite Love toward the completion of a perfect plan; you have seemed to understand that life is good as long as it is lived wisely and well; that death is good when it ends suffering and sorrow. These things you have seen and known—I want you always to see and know them."

"If any one could make me see and know them it is you, Diana."

They were silent after that, and presently she said that she must go.

Anthony took her home himself in his little car, and when at last they reached her door he said, gratefully: "What should I do without your friendship? At least I have that, Diana."

She hesitated. "It must be a long distance friendship, Anthony."

"What do you mean?"

"I am going away."

"Oh, why should you? We are self-controlled man and woman, not impulsive boy and girl. We have set our feet on a hard path. Why shouldn't we cheer each other along the way?"

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be fair—to Bettina."

"Why not? My friendship for you need deprive her of nothing."

"I must think it over."

"Don't think. Don't analyze at all. Just stay." A grave smile lighted his face. "I'm not making this as a selfish proposition, Diana. I shan't expect to absorb you, to take you away from other friendships. But I want you to be near me at such times as this; when my world was without a ray of light, you illumined it with your friendly taper."

Diana climbed the steps in an uplifted mood. This, then, was the solution of the difficulty. She had been making high tragedy of the situation when it might be solved sensibly. She remembered a quotation which she had copied in her school note-book: "My friend is one with whom I can associate my choicest thought." Her friendship with Anthony could go on as before. She could be an inspirational force in his life. Had she the right to refuse?

She found Bettina and Sophie sitting up for her.

"Oh, you're back so soon," Bettina said. "Is she better? Is that little girl better?"

Diana returned to realities with a shock. How selfish she had been! She had almost forgotten that poor little soul at the hospital.

"No, she isn't better." She shrank from voicing the truth. "They couldn't save her, and before I reached there she was—gone."

"Dead!" Bettina shuddered. "Oh, I think such things are dreadful; I don't see how Anthony stands it."

"It has made him very miserable," Diana told her; "he hates to lose a case."

"Then why does he do it?" Bettina demanded. "Why doesn't he give up his surgery? He has enough to do with his freaks at the sanatorium, and his sick people who need medicine."

"Would you have a man give up a thing which he can do better than other men?"

Sophie, looking on, wondered if there had ever been a greater contrast than these two women who faced each other in the rose-colored room. Diana, tall and pale, with wisps of hair flying a bit untidily from beneath her soft hat, yet still beautiful and with the light of high resolve shining in her steady eyes; Bettina, a little slender slip of a child, her fair shining braids falling below her knees, her eyes demanding why men and women should be dedicated to hardness.

"I have been telling Bettina," Mrs. Martens interposed, gently, "that she will understand some day what such a man means to the world."

For once in her life Diana, tired Diana, lost patience. "She ought to know what such a man means," she said.

Bettina put her hands before her face and stood very still.

"Oh, dear child," said Diana, remorsefully, "I shouldn't have said such a thing to you. I didn't mean it."



Bettina's hands dropped straight at her sides. Her blue eyes were misty. "But it's true," she said. "I'm afraid—I'm afraid I'm not the wife for Anthony."

Never had there been a truer saying. Yet the two older women stood abashed before the hurt look on the little white face.

"He has always seemed to me to be the noblest man," Bettina went on. "I don't think I have ever felt that he was anything but great. You people, who have always had everything, can't understand what he seemed to me when he used to come when mother was ill. You can't understand what it meant when he came to me when I was almost dead with loneliness, and told me that he wanted to marry me—you can't understand how every night—I pray—on my knees, that I'll be good enough for him—you can't understand how grateful I am—and how I try to appreciate his work; but I'm made that way—to hate pain. I hate to know about it—to see it——" Again she shuddered.

Diana drew her close. "Oh, you poor little thing," she said, "you poor little thing."

When the dawn, not many hours later, peeped into the three rooms, it showed, in one, Sophie asleep beneath the picture of her lost lover. In another Bettina, asleep, with tears still on her lashes, and with the flashing rings rising and falling above her heart. In the third room it showed Diana, awake, after hours of weariness—writing a letter to Anthony.

When Anthony had read that letter, he left the sanatorium and took a path which led him to the hills and into the hemlock forest. The walk up the hills was long, and the sun was hot, so that when he reached the depths of the wood he threw himself down with a grateful sense of the stillness which could not be disturbed by telephone or tap at the door. For a little while he lay with his eyes shut, steeping himself in that blessed silence.

When at last he sat up, he took from his pocket Diana's letter, and read it again, passing his hand now and then nervously through his hair, until it stood up like the ruffled plumage of an eagle.

"DEAR ANTHONY:—

"It will be easier for me to talk with you in this way than face to face. When you are with me, my point of view seems to get mixed up with your point of view, and before I know it, I find myself making promises which I cannot keep, as to-night, when I almost said I would stay—and be your friend.

"I have always been your friend, Anthony. Haven't I? Even when I was a little girl, and you were a big boy, you seemed to find something in me which made it worth while for you to leave the other big boys and stay with me and talk about my books. Will I ever forget how you read some of them aloud to me? I never open now my thumbed little copy of 'Cranford' without hearing your laughing voice stumbling over the mincing phrases, and as for 'Little Women,' I believe that I worshiped in you the personification of 'Laurie.'

"But those were not the best times, Anthony. The best were when it was too dark to read, and I would curl up on the big bench by the side of the fire, and you would lie at full length on the hearth-rug, and the wind would blow and the waves would boom, and you would weave tales for me out of your wonderful wealth of boyish dreams.

"Blessed memories! But even then I believe I resented your masterfulness a bit, Anthony. There was that time when you told me that I must get my lessons before you would finish the story which was so near the end. And I cried and coaxed, but you stood firm—and I respected you for it, and hated you and loved you in one breath.

"Oh, my big boy Anthony! Shall I ever forget you, with your brown lock over your blue eyes, your unswerving honesty of purpose, your high ideals. When you came home from college, and I had just put up my hair, and lengthened my dresses, you started to kiss me, then stopped. 'I thought I could,' you said, with such a funny note of surprise in your voice, 'but there's something about you that sort of—holds me off, Di.'

"I think then that I began to know my power over you. And how I have used it, Anthony! I have kept you single and alone all these years, because something in me would not yield to your kind of wooing.

"If only you could have been a cave man and could have carried me off! So many women wish that of men, especially proud women. It isn't that we admire brutality, but we want to have all of our little feminine doubts and fears overcome by the man's decisive action. And you made the mistake of waiting patiently, asking me now and then, 'Will you?' instead of saying, 'You must.'

"Yet while you could not win me, in other ways you dominated me. Do you remember the holidays when I came home from boarding-school, and you were interne at a hospital? You asked me to go to the theater with you, and at the last moment you were called to the operating room to help one of the surgeons. You telephoned that you'd send a carriage for me and my chaperon, but that you couldn't go;—and I wouldn't go either, but stayed at home and sulked, and looked at myself in the glass, now and then, to mourn over the fact that you couldn't see me in my pink organdie with the rosebuds.

"But you wouldn't even apologize for what I called your neglect. I said I should never go with you. You said it wasn't neglect, and that I should go. And go I did, finally, as meekly as possible, and I wore the pink organdie and had a lovely time.

"It's the memory of that night when you couldn't fit your plans to mine which has made me write this letter. When I came home from Harbor Light I found Bettina waiting up for me, and she broke down as the depressing realities of your work were forced upon her. I was very toploftical, Anthony—and was prepared to read her a sermon on the duties of a doctor's wife, when all at once I had a vision of myself in that rosebud organdie. I hated your work then, and I felt that you lacked something of devotion to me, to let it keep you from me.

"But later I felt differently. The world began to call you a great man—and I began to see with clearer eyes what you were doing for the world. And so I helped you at Harbor Light, and saw you there at your best—with your forceful control of all those helpless people, with your steadiness of hand and eye, a king who ruled by virtue of his power over life and death.

"It was in those days, I think, that I began to worship you. But I never called my worship love. I wanted to be Me, Myself, and somehow I felt that when I was once promised to you I should have no separate identity. It was the rebellion of a strong personality against a stronger one. I was not wise enough to see that you who protected others from the storms of life might want some little haven of your own—a haven which would be—Home.

"But because you failed to be masterful in the one way which would have won me, because you said, always, 'Will you?' instead of, 'Come—let there be no more of this between you and me, Diana,' I went away, not understanding you, not understanding myself.

"And over there with Sophie, I met Van Rosen. As I look back upon it, I do not wonder that he charmed me. He was different from our American men, a lover of pleasure. He typified the spirit of joy to me—there was never a moment when he had not some vivid plan for me. We did things of which I had always dreamed.

"He gave a house party for me in his ancestral castle on the Rhine. And he proposed to me in an ancient chapel with the moonlight making the effigies of his old ancestors seem like living knights in golden armor.

"It was all so picturesque that practical America—that you, oh, I must confess it, Anthony,—seemed miles away. It seemed to me that in my own country we lived dreary lives in a workaday atmosphere. It was only in that castle on the Rhine that there were people who knew how to play. So I became engaged, and through all those months, Van Rosen and I played together.

"But I grew so tired of it, so deadly tired of it! Life seemed to have no meaning. And after a time I grew a little afraid. Van Rosen was different. I can't define exactly where the difference lay. But between us was the barrier of centuries of opposing traditions. I began to feel that as his wife I should be a Princess in name, but a slave in fact. Always laughing, always seeming to dance in the sunshine, he had a hardness which nothing could soften. I saw him now and then with those whom he considered his inferiors. I saw his treatment of his servants, his horses, his dogs. I heard him speak once to an old and dependent aunt, at another time to a young governess—and my cheeks burned—and I was afraid.

"It came back to me then how you had always treated those who were weaker than yourself. You had always been a champion of old ladies and children. Every animal, from Peter Pan to your old fat horse—that old fat horse now is living in clover since you acquired your motor cars—adored and followed you.