"And one day I told Van Rosen—that I couldn't marry him. You don't know how humble I felt to think that I might have hurt him. But in that moment his real self showed. He was angry, furiously angry, and I knew all at once that it was my money, and not me that he wanted.

"And so I came back to you——

"But you had Bettina, and there was no place for me. No place for the little dark-eyed girl who had listened to the big boy on stormy nights, no place for the woman who had not known her own heart——

"And now you want me to be your friend. But I can't be your friend—Anthony. Friendship is for the man and woman who have never loved. A friendship which is the aftermath of love is the shadow after the substance. Can't you see that it is so? Can't you see that there would be just two things which might happen? If I stayed here and tried to be your friend, either I should knit myself to you by ties which should bind you to your wife, or we should drift apart, having the perfect memory neither of love nor of friendship.

"Bettina is very young, but she has depths of which you have not dreamed, of which I had not dreamed, until I talked with her last night. I went up to her room, and we had a very sweet and tender confidence. It was almost dawn before I left her. She showed me much of her heart, as she will, I hope, some day show it to you——

"Hers is a little white soul, dear friend. On the surface she has her girlish petulances, her youthful prejudices. But these? Why, I had a thousand of them, Anthony. How I snubbed those poor students whom you brought with you one afternoon to tea because their elbows were shiny and their shoes rusty. I was such a little snob, Anthony. How I should welcome them now—those great doctors, who have done so much for humanity.

"It is life which teaches us, dear friend. It will teach Bettina. And it must teach me this: To bear the hard things. Do you remember in those days when we read of knights on the battle-field that we loved those who died fighting? And how we hated those who ran away? Well, I'm going to fight—but my fight must begin by running away.

"It isn't a battle which we can fight together. The two who must do things together are you and Bettina. Any friendship of ours would shut her out. That's the plain truth, and you and I are old enough to know it, Anthony.

"There's much more that I could say to you. Much more. But you must read between the lines. All my days I shall have in my heart the memory of my dear—big boy. Some day when I am old and you are old, we can be friends. I'll look forward to that day, and it shall be my beacon light in the darkness.

"It's good-bye, dear, for a long time—good-bye.

"DIANA."

How still it was in the hemlock forest! A squirrel which had ventured down from the branches flattened himself against the trunk of a tree and peered curiously at the figure which lay face downward on the fragrant carpet. One hand, outflung, caught at a little bush and held on as if in agony. The other hand grasped the sheets of gray paper, which, close-written, in feminine script, had brought a message of infinite pain and loss.



CHAPTER XIV

THE LITTLE SILVER RING

The yacht yard in which Bobbie's boat was hauled up for repairs lay at the foot of the rocks to the north of Diana's house. From the north porch, therefore, one could look down on the activities which had to do with the bringing in, and putting into shape the fine craft which through the summer were anchored in the harbor. A marine railway floated the boats in and out at high tide, and at such times creaked complainingly.

It was on the north porch that Sophie and Bettina sat on the morning after Diana's departure—Sophie knitting a motor scarf for Anthony, Bettina hemstitching white frills.

Below in the yacht yard the master gave orders, and the machinery of the marine railway began its clanking chorus. Bettina glanced over the rail. "Bobbie's boat is going out," she said, "and he and Justin are on board."

Justin saw her and called, "May I come up?"

Bettina shook her head at him. "If he thinks I'm going to shriek an answer to the housetops, he's mistaken."

Again she shook her head at him, and Justin immediately offered excuses to Bobbie.

"You won't mind," he said, "if I go up there?"

Bobbie jeered. "Talk about me! You're here to-day and there to-morrow. Yesterday it was Sara, and now it's Betty Dolce."

"It was never Sara."

"That's what I said when I fell in love with Doris, but you wouldn't believe me. And I can't quite see the difference."

"I've never cared for Sara in that way."

"Then you have jolly well flirted with her."

"Don't try to be English with your 'jolly wells.'"

Bobbie turned his back on Justin. "I suppose, then, you're not going to have lunch with me?" he said over his shoulder.

"Why can't we all have lunch with you?"

"Who is—all?"

"Betty, and Mrs. Martens—and me——"

"Doesn't Doris come into it?"

"Of course, if you can get her up."

"I can always get her up. You know that. But there's nobody just now in the world for you but Betty Dolce."

Nobody but Bettina! Justin admitted it to himself triumphantly. Please God, there should never be any one but Bettina!

Perhaps something of his thought showed in his face, for Bobbie clapped him on the shoulder with a hearty, "Go in and win her, old man, and we'll have a double wedding."

"If my wedding," solemnly, "were as sure as yours, I'd burn incense to the gods."

"Well, why don't you make it sure?"

"I can't. She stands on her pedestal, and I can't reach up to her."

"Man, you're afraid of her."

"It isn't that. But I'm not in this race to fall out, Bobbie. I guess you can see that."

Bobbie nodded. "Anybody who has eyes can see it," he said.

The little yacht was in the water now, still helpless because of her furled sails.

Justin, making a bridge of the small boats tied to the floating pier, gained dry land, and continued his conversation with Bobbie across the intervening space. "Suppose we cut the luncheon out, and go for a sail this afternoon. We can land off Gloucester way and have tea at the Lobster Pot."

"Tea, meaning lobster sandwiches," said Bobbie. "Do you know, Justin, that the whole coast is blossoming with lobster sandwiches? Once upon a time one ate muffins with their tea. But now nobody takes tea. They take coffee and lobster sandwiches. And I don't like sea foods, and I don't drink coffee. Otherwise it is all right."

"We'll have muffins and jam. And you and Doris shall have a table by yourselves, and Bettina and I, and we'll ask Anthony to look after Mrs. Martens." He stopped. "No, we won't ask Anthony—he has a fashion of claiming Bettina. He's her guardian, you know."

"Look here, Justin. Did it ever occur to you that he'd like to be more—than a guardian?"

"It's Diana for Anthony, Bobbie."

"I'm not so sure. Doris says there is something queer about it all——"

"Queer?"

"Oh, about Diana having Bettina here, and then going away and leaving her——"

"Sara's been talking. Doris wouldn't think such unpleasant things, Bobbie—there isn't anything between Anthony and Betty. There can't be anything——"

But even as he said it he was stabbed by the memory of Bettina's radiant look of pride as she sat beside Anthony on the night of the yacht club dance.

"No man," said Bobbie, "is going to wait forever, and Betty Dolce is a very lovely little lady. All the boys at the club are crazy about her, and if it hadn't been for Doris there's no telling how I might have felt—but Doris is the last one, Justin."

"Good. I'll wigwag from the porch, Bobbie. Keep your eyes open for my signal."

Bettina, still hemstitching on white frills, welcomed Justin with a charming smile, but with a decided negative to his invitation.

"I'm going out with Anthony."

Justin eyed her reproachfully. "I told you once before that three was a crowd——"

"Oh, but this time it isn't three, but two—Anthony and I are going alone in his little car, and we are to have dinner at Green Gables."

All the laughter died out of his face. "Oh, I'm afraid you must think me all kinds of fool." He turned abruptly to Sophie. "Mrs. Martens, you'll go in Bobbie's boat, won't you? He's dying to ask Doris."

"Do you really want me?" Sophie asked, brightly.

"Always, dear lady."

Bettina, bending over her frills, felt a sudden sense of desolation.

"Oh, dear," she said, wistfully. "Why do all the nice things come at once?"

With that sigh, joy came back to Justin.

He dropped into a chair beside her. "What time will you get home to-night?" he asked.

"At eight. Anthony's office hours begin then."

"May I come up?"

"May he, Sophie?"

"It's my bridge night at the club, dear——"

"Oh——"

"Please," Justin pleaded.

Sophie laughed. "Well, Delia shall chaperon you. Of course you may come, Justin."

Justin, signaling Bobbie a moment later, was conscious of a wild desire to shout to the four winds of heaven the fact that for one little hour he was to have his goddess to himself.

For Justin's coming that night Bettina put on her white crepe tea gown with the little lace mantle. She was very tired after her ride with Anthony. There had been no reason for fatigue. He had been most kind and considerate. But Bettina's little efforts at conversation had seemed to her childishly inadequate. She had felt a sense of deadly depression. What should she do to interest him through all the years? Would he always have his mind on the things of which she knew nothing? Would she always try and never make a success of her efforts to enter into his life?

She had tried to tell him about Justin—about their compact of friendship—yet the words had died on her lips. Suppose he did not understand? Suppose he did not approve? Suppose he should forbid her to have a big brother—as he had forbidden her to fly in the "Gray Gull" with Justin?

She dared not risk such a catastrophe. She clung desperately to the thought of Justin's youth and gayety. No, Anthony might not understand, so why should she discuss it with him?

At dinner Anthony roused himself and had played the gracious host. Yet on the return trip he had relapsed into silence, and she had again felt that sense of desperate failure. Oh, what kind of wife was she going to make for this grave Anthony, this great Dr. Anthony, who loved her and whom she loved?

It was on the return trip, too, that he had spoken of their coming marriage. "Why can't it be soon, Bettina?" he had said. "Why should we wait, you and I?"

She knew that there was no good reason. That a few weeks ago she would have been radiant at the prospect.

Yet she told him, nervously, that if he didn't mind, it would be better to wait—a little. There were things to do.

And he had acquiesced, because of his masculine ignorance of the things which must really be done.

"The big house will be ready," he said, "when you are ready."

As she changed her gown on her return home, Bettina meditated soberly on the situation. Diana, when they had talked together, had pointed out that the women who married such men as Anthony must be content to make sacrifices. "He belongs to the world, dear child," she had said; "you must remember that, if you would be happy. It must be your joy to help him in his great work."

Bettina was beginning to be a little afraid of the future. It was not that she did not love Anthony—why, Anthony was the best man in the whole wide world. But everybody expected so much of her, and she was not quite sure that she should come up to the full measure of their expectations.

As she came down the stairs, Justin was waiting for her.

"Oh, you little beauty," his heart whispered; "you little white and gold beauty."

She had twisted her hair low on her neck, and her delicate lace mantle fell about her like folded gossamer wings.

"We will sit in the library," she said. "I have had a fire built. It is so damp and foggy outside. Sophie said you had to come in early from your sail on account of it."

"We came near not coming in at all," Justin told her. "Doris was terribly scared. But Mrs. Martens was as cool as possible. It's rather risky business outside on such a day. The rocks are like needle points under the water."

"I'm a terrible coward."

"You only think you are. When are you going to fly with me?"

"Never—please."

He had placed a chair for her by the fire, and stood leaning over the back of it.

"Never is a long time—little sister."

"But I should be afraid."

"Not with me."

Silence.

"Not with me." He came around so that he could look into her face. "Would you be afraid with me?"

She knew that she would not. She had not been afraid in the storm. But these things were not to be told.

She did not meet his eyes, but shook her head.

He was struck by her troubled look.

"Tired—little sister?" he asked.

Her lips quivered. "Very tired."

His heart yearned over her. She seemed such a little thing in that stately room with its high ceilings, its massive furniture, its book-lined walls. The only light came from the fire, and from a silver lamp which hung over Diana's desk. On the table near Bettina was a bowl of pink hyacinths, which filled the room with the fresh fragrance of spring.

He was conscious of these things, however, only as a setting for her beauty. And he was more than ever conscious of his desire to place himself between her and the world which might hurt her. "Let me help you," he said, earnestly. "Don't you know that my only desire is to serve you?"

She considered him, wistfully. "It's dear of you to say that."

He sat down, leaning toward her.

"It isn't dear of me. It isn't even good of me. It's simply self-preservation. Don't you know, can't you see that I have only one thought—your happiness; only one wish—to be always near you?"

There was no mistaking the significance of his flaming words.

She shrank back. "Oh, you must not say such things."

"Why not?"

"Because. Oh, you called yourself my friend."

"I am more than that," he said, steadily. "I am your lover."

"Please—oh, please."

She began to sob like a little child. "Oh, big brother," she told him, "you have spoiled everything."

He knelt beside her chair. "How have I spoiled things?"

"I wanted you for my friend."

"I am your friend, dear one."

Very still and pale she fought against the sweetness of the truth he was forcing upon her.

"Please—go away," she whispered.

He rose to his feet. "I shall not give you up."

She rose also, a frail little thing in her floating draperies, and laid her hand lightly on his arm.

"There are things which I cannot tell you. But I need a friend. If you care for me you'll let me be your—little sister; you won't trouble me by saying such things as you have said—to-night."

He tried with all the strength of his young manhood to hide his own hurt and meet her need.

"I could kill myself for making you cry. I'm going to be good now. Really and truly your good big brother."

She glanced up at him with charming shyness.

"I'll forget the things that you have said to-night—if you won't say them again."

"I shall not tie myself to an impossible promise," he repeated, "but I am going to tie you to a promise."

"Me?" She faced him.

"Yes. Oh, see here," boyishly, "I brought something for you to-night. I have noticed that you don't wear rings, but I want you to wear this." He opened his hand and showed her, lying on the palm, a little silver ring. "It's just a simple trinket that my sister wore as a child. I'd like to think that it would tie you to me always—for remembrance. I had hoped that you would let me give you another some time. But this—why, you can't object to wearing it—and it would mean a lot to me if you would——"

Her slender fingers touched it. "How sweet of you to think of it——"

"Then you'll wear it?"

"Yes—because you are—my friend."

He took her hand in his and fitting the slender band first on one finger and then on another found a place for it at last on the little finger of her left hand.

"With this ring," he said, softly, "I take you always—for my friend——"

Then he stood looking down at her. "What a lovely little thing you are," he said. "You're so tiny that I could pick you up and carry you off, yet I tremble when I touch your hand."

She drew a quick short breath.

"You aren't to say such things to me—you know."

"I'll be good."

She knelt down like a child on the hearth-rug, and held her hand forward so that the light of the fire might shine on the silver circlet.

"Why, it's engraved," she said, "with two hearts."

"Yes," he said; "your heart and mine."

As she bent forward, the thin chain which she wore about her neck swung forward from among the laces of her gown, and, "tinkle, tinkle," sounded the chime of the flashing rings which Anthony had given her.

Justin saw her catch at them, saw her look of frightened appeal as she thrust them hurriedly back into their hiding-place.

She rose slowly from the rug; slowly she took the little silver ring from her finger; slowly she handed it back to him.

"Please, I must not wear it," she said, with a break in her voice. "I must give it back to you—my friend."



CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH BETTINA FLIES

In the clear days which followed, Justin gave his undivided attention to flying. Not once did he see Bettina. Not once did he join the party of young people of which he had been the leading spirit.

In vain did Bobbie formulate enticing plans.

"We'll go to Cat Island with Captain Stubbs, fish all day, and have chowder on the rocks."

There had been one glorified fishing trip for Justin with Bettina. He wanted no other.

"I've wasted enough time," he said shortly. "I came here to practice flying, not to do social stunts."

Sara urged him also. "You haven't played a set of tennis with me since you came up," she complained. "Of course I know you're simply crazy over Betty Dolce, but that needn't cut me out entirely. I thought my friendship meant something to you, Justin."

"It does," Justin told her, honestly, "but I'm not in a mood for tennis, and as for Betty Dolce, I haven't seen her for a week."

Sara was cheered by his statement. If his absorption was simply in his flying machine, she could wait. Men always returned finally from machines to femininity.

So Justin flew and flew, looking down at times upon the tops of the houses in the quaint coast towns, at other times having beneath him and above him blue sea and blue sky.

And everywhere he went, he knew that people were craning their necks and crying out in wonder, for in this part of the world, at least, such aerial craft were rare visitors.

And when he grew tired of great heights, he would let his shining ship slide down the air currents until it touched the water; then like a mammoth aquatic bird it would swim the surface, and the sailors on the big yachts would lean out over the sides and hail him, and the motor boats would follow him, until, at last, growing impatient of their close observance, he would rise again, higher and higher in the golden haze; earth would be left behind, and he would be alone with his thoughts.

And he thought always of Bettina.

He thought of her as he had first seen her, in the shadowy room, with her shabby black dress and her white and gold beauty. He thought of her as she had come toward him under the lilacs, a flower among the flowers. Again he saw her dancing, like a wraith, in the moonlight; he saw her, in the little blue serge frock and shady hat, measuring him with her cool eyes; and again, laying plates on the flapping cloth with white hands, or racing with him against the wildness of the storm. He saw her with her fair wet braids hanging to her knees, and her slender fingers twisting among the gold. He saw her with the light of the harness-room fire upon her as she promised to be his friend.

But most of all he saw her as she had been that last night in the great library, frail and white in her floating draperies.

"You have spoiled everything," she had said.

How had he spoiled everything?

In one moment he would resolve to have it out with her. In the next he would plan to go away, to give her up, to forget her.

A few weeks ago he had not known her. He had liked many women, but had loved none. He had been heart-whole and fancy free. And now his life, his happiness, all of his future, were bound up in this little pale child with the wonderful hair!

Up and up, higher and higher. It was like the flight of an eagle.

And far below, on a porch which overhung the harbor, two women watched with beating hearts.

"Oh, why will he do it?" Sophie asked, in agonized tones. "It is so dangerous."

Bettina caught her breath. "Somehow I can't think of the danger," she said. "He isn't afraid, and to me it seems—very wonderful—as if he had wings, and could fly—straight up—to heaven——"

As Justin had thought all that week of Bettina, so she had thought of him; every moment of the day, and into the night, the vision was upon her.

Again she was held by those mocking eyes, again she was thrilled by that mad race in the rain. She saw him as he had been on the night of the yacht club dance, with his laughing air of conquest; as he had been in the great library, saying steadily, "I am your lover——"

He had gone from her, angry, that night because she would give him no explanation of her refusal to take the silver ring.

"I cannot, I cannot," she had repeated.

He had caught hold of her hands. "You are not a flirt," he had said; "you are too sweet and good for that—but what do you mean by your mysteries——Oh, why can't you tell me the truth?"

She had looked at him, dumbly, and he had rushed away, leaving her unforgiven.

She had written at once to Diana, asking to be released from her promise to keep her engagement secret. "People ought to know," was the reason she gave.

She had also telephoned to Anthony. She wanted to see him. To tell him that she would marry him as soon as he wished. That would be the solution. Then Justin would understand, and would forgive her.

She felt that more than anything in the whole wide world she wanted Justin's forgiveness.

Anthony had come, and they had gone into the library where she had talked with Justin, and Anthony, preoccupied and silent, had placed a chair for her, and had stood where Justin had stood. And she had shivered and had begged, "Sit down where I can see you."

He had taken the chair opposite her, and suddenly she had surprised herself and him by coming over to him, and slipping to her knees beside his chair, and sobbing with her face hidden.

He had lifted her in his arms, and had soothed her like a child. "What is it, dear heart?" he had demanded.

And, like a child, she had answered:

"Oh, please, let's get married right away——"

She had explained haltingly that she had been lonely since Diana went away, and unhappy. She—she missed her mother—and Diana's house wasn't her home. Sophie was dear, but, oh, it would be much better to be married as soon as she could get ready.

"And how soon will that be?" gravely.

"In a month. I think everybody should be told now."

He agreed. "Perhaps it should have been announced at once, but Diana seemed to think that it was best to wait."

"Diana doesn't know—everything."

"No, but she is wise in many things."

"Anthony?"

"Yes?"

"When we are—married, will you and Diana be just as good friends?"

"I hope that we may——"

Something in his tone had made her look up and say quickly, "Oh, I want you to be friends. You didn't think that I was jealous—of Diana?"

He had thought she might be. If she knew the truth she would surely have a right to be. But she did not know the truth.

"Why did you ask?" he probed.

"Because," feverishly, "it doesn't seem right, does it, that just because a man and a woman are married they should never have any men or women friends? There's Bobbie, for example—and—and Justin—I shan't have to be just your wife, shall I? I can have them for friends?"

"Of course." Yet even as he said it he wondered if he would care to have her allegiance divided—as his was divided. Oh, wise Diana, who had refused to be what she had no right to be, what he would not want his own wife to be, when once she was bound to him—the dear friend of another man.

"You and I," he said, "must try to be all in all to each other." Then after a pause, "Do you really love me, child?"

"Oh, yes." Again she drew a sobbing breath.

"I am such an old fellow," he said, in a troubled way, "and you are made for bright things and gay things. I wonder if you will be happy with an old tired fellow like me——"

In her simplicity she believed that his appeal was that of love, and out of the gratitude which she felt that she owed him she tried to respond.

"Oh, I do love you," she whispered, "and when we are married—we shall be happy——"

Presently she tugged at the thin chain about her neck, and brought forth the rings.

"After this I shall wear them," she said, "for all the world to see."

When Anthony went home he answered Diana's letter. He had sent her flowers on the day that she had left—her favorite violets and valley lilies. Beyond that he had made no sign.

But now he wrote:

"OH, DEAR WISE WOMAN:

"During all the days since I received your letter I have not been able to see things as you wanted me to see them. I have raged against Fate, and have been pursued by Furies. I have shut myself away, as far as possible, from the world. At one moment I have doubted your love for me; at the next, I have resolved to follow you, play cave man, and carry you off.

"I have read and reread your letter, trying to find some weakness to which I could appeal—but I could find none. But finally, as I read, one sentence began to stand out: 'We loved those who died—fighting.' When I got into the swing of that thought it stirred me. I am going to live—fighting—perhaps I shall die—fighting——

"To-day Bettina has told me that she will marry me in a month. She says that she has written you that it is best that people should know at once. And I think that it is best. I shall try to make her happy, but if I conquer life, if I ever do any great thing or good thing or wise thing, it will be because you have shown me the way.

"You say, 'When we are old, we can be friends.' How I shall welcome old age, Diana! May the years fly swiftly!

"ANTHONY."

Having squared himself thus with the inevitable, Anthony, a little grayer, perhaps, a little more worn and worried, took up life where he had left off before Diana came home from Europe.

He had seen nothing, of late, of Justin, except as he had glimpsed him, now and then, in the air.

But on the morning on which Bettina and Sophie had watched the flight from their porch he came upon the young aviator, near the sheds, standing in the midst of an eager group of young folks, adored by the girls, envied by the boys.

Amid the clamor of voices he caught the question, "Are you going up again this afternoon?"

"Yes."

Then, over their heads, Justin saw Anthony.

"Bring Betty Dolce up this afternoon," he called, "and I'll show you through the shops. There are four ships beside mine in the sheds, and they'll be sent out to-morrow. You and she may never have a chance to see so many together."

Anthony agreed, and called up Bettina.

She assented eagerly. To-day, then, Justin should see her rings. He would ask for an explanation. She would tell him,—and he would understand. When he knew that she belonged to Anthony he would forget that he had wanted to be anything but her friend, and things would be as they had been before.

So, knowing nothing of the hearts of men, she argued in her innocence.

When she saw Justin, she felt that even through her gloves he must see the rings. But his eyes were on her face, and she burned red beneath his glance.

On an impulse he had asked her. If Anthony brought her, he should see her, talk to her. That, for the moment, would give his heart respite from the pain which gnawed it.

In the dimness of the great sheds Bettina flitted silently like a white moth from place to place. She left the conversation to Justin and to Anthony. When Justin made explanations she seemed to listen, but she did not look up.

As a matter of fact, she heard not a word. Her mind was on her rings. She began to take off her gloves, slowly; dreading, yet craving the moment, when Justin should look at her hands.

But he was still explaining to Anthony: "These pontoons do the trick. An aeroplane simply flies. But the hydro-aeroplanes fly and swim, and that's what makes them so safe when there's water to cross."

As he touched the delicate wires of the framework they gave forth a humming noise. "When you're up in the air," he said, "it sounds like the crash of chords."

Bettina's gloves were off now. The big diamonds on her left hand seemed to catch all the light in the dim room and to blaze like suns!

But Justin was thinking only of Bettina's eyes under her drooping veil, and of her cheeks which burned red, and of her lips which were closed against any speech with him.

They went on to the last shed, which was open, and from which a track descended into the water.

Poised there, in the half-darkness, like a bird at rest, was another ship, ready for flight.

"This is mine," said Justin; "the 'Gray Gull.' I wanted to call her 'The Wild Hawk,' but changed my mind. Do you remember Kipling's

"'The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old'?"

"It is one of Diana's favorites," said Anthony. But Bettina said never a word.

And just then a boy came to say that Dr. Blake was wanted at the telephone.

"It's a hurry call," Anthony came back to tell them. "Would you mind walking home with Bettina, Justin?"

Would he mind? Suddenly all the stars sang!

The moment that Anthony's back was turned Bettina felt a frantic desire to hide her rings. What would Justin say when he saw them? With Anthony there she had felt brave. But now—she turned the rings inward and began hastily to put on her gloves. Oh, to-night, after she reached home, she would write Justin a prim little note and tell him of her engagement! That would be better, of course! She should have thought of it before!

Crashing across her trembling decision came Justin's demand.

"Look here. Why can't you fly with me now? Just a little way, low over the harbor? Come——"

It seemed to her that between them was beating and throbbing darkness, out of which his eager eyes said, "Come."

"Oh, no," she protested, with dry lips. "Anthony wouldn't like it."

"What has Anthony to do with it?" He had taken her hands in his and was crushing them. The rings cut and hurt, but she made no sign; she only looked at him large-eyed, and said, not knowing what she said, "He has nothing to do with it——"

"Then come——"

She was conscious that he was taking the pins out of her big hat. That he was winding her white chiffon veil, nun-like, about her head, so that her face was framed. And within this frame glowed her hot cheeks and questioning eyes.

"Come," he said, again, and lifted her to her seat and fastened her in, and took his place beside her. He whistled, and two men came, and the buoyant ship slid down the track toward the water; the big propeller waved for a moment its octopus arms, then started with a mighty roar.

For a moment they swam the surface, then, light as a bird, the "Gray Gull" soared.

Up and up, with the white yachts in the harbor just beneath them, with the gold of the sunshine surrounding them; and out of it his face bending down to her.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, as he had asked in the storm.

And she, with her cheeks still burning hot, looked up at him and laughed.

"Afraid—with you? Oh, Justin, Justin, I could fly like this—forever."



CHAPTER XVI

VOICES IN THE DARK

Captain Stubbs' cottage was one of the show places of the town. Built before the Revolution, it was of typical English rural architecture—one-storied, with a square chimney, and with a garden which made it the delight of artists who came from far and near to paint it; in the spring crocuses starred the borders, violets studded the lawn with amethyst, pale irises and daffodils, narcissus and jonquils stood in slim beauty. Later came sweet peas, and the roses followed, hiding with their beauty the weather-beaten boards. The late summer brought nasturtiums in all their richness of orange and bronze-brown, and in the fall, the dahlias blazed.

The captain lived alone, attending to his domestic affairs in a fashion which was the envy of less spick and span housekeepers. He would not have his home invaded by prying folk, but to his invited and welcome guests he would show his carved ivories, his embroideries, heavy with gold, his dragon-encircled jars and vases. Everywhere was the charm of shining neatness, and flowers were everywhere.

"I think I should have looked for a wife," the captain had told Bettina and Miss Matthews one day when they had lunched with him, "if it hadn't been for my flowers. I don't need a wife to cook for me. I'm a better cook than most women. And I don't need a wife to mend my clothes, because every sailor can handle a needle. And I don't need a wife to keep the house clean for me—there isn't any woman on earth that makes things shine like a man who has been taught to rub brasses and scrub down decks. What I'd need a wife for would be to make things pretty, and to look pretty herself. But Lord, I ain't the kind to attract a pretty woman—and so I just gave it up."

A faint glimmer of resentment had shone in Miss Matthews' eyes. "I guess most women are kept so busy that they haven't time to think about their looks."

"Well, if I had a wife," the captain had said, "I'd like to have her wear bright things. My mother had dimity dresses—there was a pink one, like a rose, and a green one that looked like the young grass in the spring, and there was one that made me think of forget-me-nots, or the sky when there isn't a cloud in it."

Bettina had smiled at him. "How pretty your mother must have been."

"It wasn't that she was so pretty; it was her soft, quiet ways, and those bright-colored roses. And I've been looking for that kind of woman ever since."

"If your mother," little Miss Matthews had told him, "had lived in this day of shirt-waists and short skirts, she'd probably be wearing high collars and sad colors with the rest of us."

The emphasis with which the little lady had offered her opinion and the flush on her face had made Bettina look at her with awakened eyes. "Why—I believe she likes him. She'd be really nice-looking if she'd fix her hair——"

To-day, as Miss Matthews stopped for a moment at the captain's gate to admire his sweet peas, she was not even "nice-looking." She was pale and thin, and had a hoarse cough.

"I'm going home and to bed," she said. "I took cold that day in the rain, captain, and it hasn't left me since, and I took more cold yesterday, going to school without my overshoes."

"You come right in, and I'll make you a cup of tea," said the captain, hospitably. But Miss Matthews refused, wearily.

As she turned away, however, Mrs. Martens came to get the flowers which were the captain's daily offering for Diana's table, and the little man extended a beaming invitation to both of them.

"You pick your posies," he said, "and I'll get some tea for you and bring it right out here. You make her stay, Mrs. Martens; she needs a rest."

Sophie smiled at the little teacher. "You ought not to be out at all," she said, sympathetically.

"School closes in four days," explained little Miss Matthews; "after that I think I shall fall down and die, but I've got to keep up until then."

As the two women stood there at the gate together, they presented a striking contrast: Sophie in her black, modish garments, with the look upon her face of the woman who has been loved, and who has bloomed because of it; Miss Matthews, a faded shadow of what she might have been if love had not passed her by.

"How's Betty?" Miss Matthews asked, as she sat down on a bench on the little covered porch, and watched Sophie's slender fingers pull the sweet peas.

Sophie straightened up. "I'm worried about her," she said. "She and Anthony Blake went to see the air-ships, and I had a telephone message from Anthony that he had had a hurry call, and that Justin would look after Betty. That was two hours ago, and Betty hadn't returned when I left to come here——"

Captain Stubbs, appearing with a big loaded tray, gave important information.

"Did she have on a white dress?"

"Yes."

"Then she's gone flying with Justin Ford."

"What?" Sophie stood up, and all the fragrant blooms fell at her feet. "Oh, surely he wouldn't take Betty up with him. It would be dreadful."

"Now, don't you worry," said the captain; "he ain't goin' to let a hair of her head get hurt—he's daffy over her."

"Daffy?" Sophie stared.

"Yep." The captain set his tray on the rustic table. "He and that Betty child went with me and Miss Matthews for a day's fishin', and at first we didn't notice anything, but after a while we began to open our eyes—and, well, we ain't blind, are we, Miss Matthews?"

Miss Matthews, drinking her tea thirstily, took up the captain's story. "It rained, and the captain and I wrapped up and stayed by the boat. But those young folks ran off, and he was helping her along, and she was looking up at him—and—everybody knows what's going to happen when two people look at each other that way."

"And if they are flying," the captain chuckled, "they're probably as near heaven as it's possible to be this side of the pearly gates."

But Sophie would not treat the subject lightly. "It's bad enough for a man to fly," she said, "but he had no right to take that child up with him. Where did you see them, captain?"

"I was standing on those rocks out there, and I saw him rise up over the harbor. I could see that he had someone with him, so I went in, and got my glass, and sure enough, there she was, all in white, with a white veil wrapped tight about her head."

"Which way did they go?"

"Straight out beyond the harbor, and up toward Gloucester way—but don't you worry, Mrs. Martens; they'll be back before they know it."

"But I do worry," Sophie declared, "and I shall certainly tell Justin what I think of his foolhardiness."

"Well, you take your tea," said the captain, soothingly, "and I'll call up and see if they have come in."

Taking tea with the captain meant the tasting of many strange and wonderful flavors. The little man had clung to all the traditions of his seagoing forefathers, who had brought back from the Orient spicy things and sweet things—conserved fruits and preserved ginger, queer nuts in syrup, golden-flavored tea, and these he served with thick slices of buttered bread of his own making.

"You might have had a lobster," he said to Sophie, "if it hadn't been so near your dinner time. I've got 'em fresh cooked."

But Sophie shook her head. "I like your sweet things better. Bobbie and I are the ones who don't like lobster. He says that I'm a sort of oasis in a desert of shell-fish."

"He's got a nice boat," said the captain, "and he's got a nice girl. I like Doris."

Sophie's mind went back to Bettina. "Oh, will you telephone, please, captain?"

The captain came back with the news that nothing had been seen of the "Gray Gull," but that there was no need to worry, as the day was perfectly calm, and that, as he had Miss Dolce with him, he would certainly not fly high.

Sophie refused to be comforted. "I shall tell Anthony," she said; "he must speak to Justin."

"I don't see what Blake's got to do with it," said the blunt captain; "young Ford may tell him to mind his business——"

Sophie's head went up. "Dr. Blake is Bettina's guardian," she said, "and if Justin resents his interference, I shall certainly be much disappointed in Justin."

Miss Matthews bristled. "You ought to have seen the care he took of her that day in the rain. I shall never forget the sight of those two young creatures running up the hill—the captain said then he had never seen a prettier pair."

In the midst of her worry Sophie felt an insane desire to laugh. Was this tragedy only or, after all, a comedy? If Betty loved Justin? Her imagination could scarcely compass the consequences of this possibility.

Sophie walked home with Miss Matthews, and, returning to Diana's, met Sara half-way.

"Is Bettina flying with Justin?" Sara asked, abruptly.

"Captain Stubbs says that she is. I am very much displeased with Justin. It is really unpardonable that Bettina should be subjected to such danger."

"She didn't have to go if she didn't want to," said Sara, sharply, "but she's crazy about him——"

"My dear——How do you know?"

"Anybody can see it. And I guess it's the real thing this time with Justin."

The wistful expression on the sharp little face touched Sophie's kind heart.

"It's hardly likely. They have known each other for such a short time."

"Time has nothing to do with love," said the sophisticated Sara. "A man and a girl can meet and love in a week and live happy ever after. Oh, yes, they can. And they can know each other all their lives and be perfectly miserable. Dad and mother grew up together, and you've heard, Mrs. Martens, what a life they lived."

The story of the unhappiness of Sara's parents was common property. Yet it hurt Sophie to see the hard look in the girl's eyes.

"My dear child," she said, "everything depends on the amount of affection which two people give each other—time doesn't count."

Sara was digging the point of her parasol into the sand. "I've never seen anything like it with Justin. Why, he's never asked any woman to fly with him. And when I looked up a while ago, and saw that he had—her—I knew he wouldn't have—asked her—if he hadn't—cared——"

"Perhaps we are making things more serious than they really are," Sophie said. But as the two women walked on together, her mental disturbance continued. What if Miss Matthews and Sara had spoken the truth? How would it affect Bettina—how would it affect—Diana?

"I can't quite understand what all the men see in her," Sara was saying. "Of course she's a beauty. But she's so little and white—and she doesn't seem so terribly clever——"

"There's a charm she has inherited from those sleepy Venetian ladies, who only waked now and then to flash a glance at some man—and hold him captive. Those beauties were without conscience. But Bettina has a Puritan streak in her which she gets from her mother—that's what makes her such a fascinating combination, Sara. She's like a little nun; yet one feels instinctively that back of that calm exterior there is force and fire."

Sara nodded. "I know. Men don't like the obvious. That's why so many of us American girls fail to inspire grand passions. We have no surprises—no high lights or shadows—it's all glare——"

"I'm not sure, my dear, but that, in the long run, such women make men happier than the other kind. In this practical world there's little room for varying moods."

"If Justin marries Bettina," said Sara, "they'll live on rhapsodies." She drew a quick short breath. "There won't be any commonplaces. They're both made that way. It will be all romance and roses——"

"My dear—aren't we taking things a bit for granted?"

"You'll see. You haven't watched them as I have."

They had reached Diana's house, and Sophie asked Sara to come in.

"I can't. It's getting late and I must dress for dinner——"

"Some other time then, dear?"

"Yes—I shall love it." Then, with some hesitation, "I'm afraid I've said more than I should——"

Sophie bent and kissed her. "Not a bit. I'm a perfect keeper of confidences—and not a soul shall share what you've told me——"

Delia met Mrs. Martens in the hall.

"Dr. Blake's on the porch," she said, "and he's asking about Bettina——"

"Hasn't she come?"

"No."

"What time is it, Delia——"

"Half-past six——"

"Of all the mad things to do," said Anthony, as Sophie went out to him. "I shall certainly call Justin to strict account—for asking her——"

"She shouldn't have gone," Sophie said. "I can't imagine how he induced her. She's such a little coward."

"They've been away three hours. I went over to the sheds and started a motor boat to search for them. They are beginning to realize over there that something may have happened."

"Did Justin ask Betty while you were with her?"

"No. He simply showed us around, and said he'd walk home with her. Oh, the young fool, the young fool. He can risk his own life if he chooses—but he had no right to take—that child——"

The telephone rang, and Sophie, answering, found Justin at the other end.

"We're at Gloucester, safe and sound. I'm awfully sorry if you've worried, Mrs. Martens. But I could not get to a 'phone before this. We'll come back by train, and Betty says you're not to wait dinner. We'll get something here. We're all right, really—only sorry if you are upset."

"We are very much upset," Sophie told him, severely. "Anthony is here, and he is extremely anxious."

"He needn't worry," grimly. "I can take care of her."

Mrs. Martens, explaining the situation to Anthony a few minutes later, refrained, tactfully, from giving Justin's exact words.

Anthony dined with her, then went off to see Miss Matthews, who had asked him to prescribe for her cold.

"Call me up when Bettina comes," he said, as he left.

Sophie promised, and watched him drive away in his little car. She had never seen him so nervous, so irritable. Was this what the thwarting of his life would mean—that he would let go of the serenity which had made his presence a benediction to his little world?

Or was it really love for Bettina which so disturbed him? Stranger things had happened. Diana was away—Bettina was beautiful—Justin was in the field to measure lances.

With Peter Pan for company, Sophie waited on the porch for the recreant pair.

When they arrived it was very dark, and she could not see their faces. But what had made that difference in their voices—that subtle, thrilling difference?



CHAPTER XVII

GLORY OF YOUTH

When Bettina cried, "I could fly with you,—forever," the light of a great joy leaped in Justin's eyes. But he said nothing; he merely set his hand more steadily to steering.

And Bettina was content to be silent; to drift on and on in this golden world, where there was just herself and the youth with the shining eyes.

Far beneath them several racing yachts seemed flung like white flower petals on the surface of the sea; two girls in red coats on the club-house tennis courts made glowing spots of color; the crowds of people on the rocks, with their heads upturned to view the fairy ship of the air, were as formless and as lacking in life and movement as a patchwork quilt.

Bettina felt no wonder. Her mood was one of heavenly enchantment; having passed the first gate of the great adventure, no small detail could seem strange.

If in those exquisite moments she remembered Anthony, she gave no sign. Somewhere, perhaps, down there in the darkness, was a weary man working; there were sick people; pain was there and suffering. But such things belonged to an existence in which she had no part. It was as if she had died, and, rising above the earth, looked pityingly on those who still struggled and strove.

She had a sudden whimsical memory of a Sunday-school song which had appealed to her childish imagination:

"I shall have wings, I shall have wings, I shall have wings, some day——"

Years ago she had sung it with a half hundred enthusiastic youngsters. Her vision, then, had dealt, somewhat hazily, with golden crowns, with plumed pinions, and with ultimate bliss; but never had her imagination compassed such a moment as this!

Above the noise of the motor Justin was aware of the lilt of her fresh young voice:

"I shall have wings, I shall have wings——"

The humming wires keyed the hackneyed tune to a sort of celestial harmony:

"Bright wings of love, from God above, To bear my glad soul away——"

Justin glanced down at her rapt face.

"Do you like it?"

"It is—heaven!"

As she again took up the little song, he joined in, and they finished the last verse triumphantly; then they looked at each other and laughed.

"I used to sing it in Sunday-school," Bettina explained.

"So did I," and these simple sentences, in their uplifted mood, seemed fraught with great meaning.

They were beyond the harbor now. Ahead of them and to the right was the open sea; to the left, the town, with its church steeples like pin points beneath them, its most imposing buildings no bigger than mushrooms.

"Are we so very high?"

"Not so high, perhaps, as it seems to you. It is perfectly safe."

On and on they went, leaving the lighthouse behind them, leaving behind them the harbor and the town, passing, finally, the great forest through which they had raced in the rain.

Then Justin had asked, "Do you remember?"

And Bettina had answered, "Shall I ever forget?"

The gulls circled below them, uttering mewing cries. It was as if they protested against the intrusion of this bird man and bird woman in a realm which had belonged to winged things since the world began.

They came presently to a long and lonely stretch of beach, above which Justin sailed, low, and, relaxing his vigilance for the first time, he began his eager wooing—all fire and rapture.

And Bettina trembled—and listened.

It seemed to her that throughout her life she had waited to hear that which Justin was saying to her now.

"You were made for me—dear. In my dreams there has always been a girl like you—little and white and helpless—but vivid, too, in flashes. When I saw you for the first time in that dark room on that rainy day I knew that you were—mine. I know I'm not good enough for you. I know that if you should ever marry me I should thank God on my knees every day of my life. But it isn't conceit which makes me believe that you and I have been coming toward each other always. I don't know why you gave me back the silver ring. At this moment I don't care—although the other night my world went to pieces—but just now, what you said,—and the way you said it, that you would fly with me forever,—made me feel that all the things I had hoped were true——"

Bettina felt as if their souls were bared. What conventional thing could she say which would hide her joy? Her eyes would tell him though her lips might not.

As if he read her thoughts he bent down to her. "Look at me," he urged, and again, "My dear one—is it, then, really—true?"

* * * * *

She knew now that she was Justin's and he was hers until the end of time. By all the white wonder of her thoughts she knew it. By all the quickened blood in her beating heart. What she had felt for Anthony was the affection of an unawakened nature—she had given him gratitude, friendship—but between them were the years across which she must look somewhat timidly; between them was his sadness, which oppressed her, and his profession, which she feared.

But here was youth, which she understood, and romance, for which she had longed, and love at white-heat.

Thus, as she soared with Justin, she forgot past promises and future judgments, and whispered, "It is true——"

After that they talked in the language of youth and love.

"Do you know how pretty you are?"

"You think that I am pretty because you—like me."

"I think it because I—love you."

The echo of their light laughter went trailing after them as the song of a lark trails through the blue.

Softly, at last, Justin brought his shining ship down to the surface of a little bay.

Two men at work on the beach came out in a dory in answer to his call.

They were eager and curious, and glad to tow the queer craft into shallow water, to make it fast, and to watch it for a time.

"We will walk about for a bit," Justin said to Bettina, "and go back at sunset."

Bettina demurred. "It's really late now," she said, with her eyes on the eastern horizon, where the first gray haze of twilight was beginning to gather.

"Look the other way. There's all the gold of the west, and it won't be dark for hours."

"But Sophie will worry."

"She will think you're with Anthony—he's nice and safe."

"Perhaps some one will have seen us, and have told her, and anyhow, I must get back for dinner."

"Any one may eat a dinner, but for you and me there may never be another moment like this!"

Following a steep path they came presently to a curious and lonely spot. Here was an ancient burying place. On a rocky headland, overlooking the entrance to the harbor and the wide sweep of the sea beyond, the first dead of the colony had been buried; here lay the forefathers of the town. Many of the stones had fallen; others stood sturdily where they had stood for centuries. Strange old stones they were, of gray slate, etched with forbidding symbols of skulls and crossbones.

In one corner was a monument of later erection. It had to do with the memory of more than a hundred men who had been lost in a September gale off the fishing banks.

Bettina shivered as she read the carved history.

"Oh, how did the women stand it," she said, "to come here to the top of this hill, week after week, watching? To wonder and worry and fear. To wake in the middle of the night and know that their husbands and lovers were out in the blackness and storm. And then at last to see the boats coming in, and not know whether the ones they loved were on board—to find, perhaps, at last, that they were not on board. How did they stand it?"

"As you would have stood it, if you had been one of them——"

"Would I?" wistfully. "Do you think I could be brave and patient?"

"You could be everything that is good and beautiful——"

She did not smile or blush. All the glamour of their flight had fallen from her. The old cemetery with its gruesome headstones oppressed her. The purple shadows of the twilight seemed to circle the world.

She shuddered and one little hand caught at the sleeve of Justin's coat.

He glanced down at her. "My dear one, what is it?"

Her frightened eyes pleaded. "I—I don't like it here. I'm afraid."

"With me—silly. You weren't afraid up there in the clouds."

"This is—different. It seems down here as if the whole world were—dead——"

"You're tired. Look here, I'm going to carry you up this hill."

As he said it, masterfully, she felt herself swept up into his strong young arms.

"Put me down!"

He drew his head back to look at her.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Put me down."

He set her on her feet, and she stood there, swaying, her lips parted.

At last she said, "I love you," but held out her hand as if to keep him from her. "I love you—but I mustn't let you—love me."

"Why not?"

"Because—oh, Justin," she was stripping off her gloves, "oh, I've tried to hide these," pitifully, "to hide these from you. I wanted my little moment of happiness, too. But now you've got to know."

The gloves were off, and the last rays of the setting sun, striking the great jewels, brought fire which seemed to blind Justin's eyes.

He caught her hands in his, roughly. "Who gave them to you?" he demanded. "Who gave them to you, Bettina?"

But all his doubts and fears had crystallized to certainty before she whispered, "Anthony."

"Do you mean that you are going to marry—Anthony?"

She nodded. "He loves me, Justin."

"And you love him?"

Her head went up. "I told you just now that—I loved—you. But I've promised Anthony. He asked me that day before I went to Diana's. The day after I first saw you. And he was so good, and I was so lonely, that I thought that—I cared. I didn't know then what it meant—to care."

His eyes, which had been stern, softened.

"And now that you know," he asked, "what are you going to do?"

She twisted her fingers nervously.

"I don't know," she faltered. "What shall I do, Justin?"

"Oh, my dear," he said, brokenly, "Anthony is my friend. I can't steal you—like a thief—in the night——"

Her lips quivered. "I knew that—you'd say that. I am glad—you—said it."

He turned away. "If you knew how hard it is for me to say it."

She laid her little hand on his arm.

"If you only won't be angry with me."

He turned back to her. "I am not angry," he said, "only I have been—all sorts of a fool."

She sank down hopelessly on a broken stone bench, backed by evergreen trees. "You haven't been a fool," she said. "I should have told you. But I couldn't. Diana wouldn't let me."



"What did Diana have to do with it?"

"She said that Anthony's friends ought to know me before the engagement was announced."

"So you and she have talked it over, and Sophie, I suppose—and how many others?" His laugh was not good to hear.

"Oh, please. I don't think any of us could have guessed that—things would have turned out like this. I didn't dream how you felt and how I felt until the other night, when you tried to give me the little ring. Then I knew."

"That you loved me?"

"No. That you loved me. I—I didn't know the other until to-day when you said—'Come.'"

"Didn't you know that day in the rain?"

"No, oh, no. I thought it was just because we were both young, and good friends, and happy together."

"And I thought it was because our spirits met—in the storm."

He flung himself down beside her. "To me the whole thing seems monstrous. Anthony is years too old for you, even if you loved him. And you don't love him."

"Yet I can't break a promise, can I?"

He moved restlessly.

"If you told him, he would release you, of course. But somehow I'd feel an awful cad to have Anthony think that I had taken you from him."

"How do you think I should feel?" The color flamed in her cheeks. "Don't you know that a woman has just as fine a sense of honor in such things as a man?"

As she made a movement to rise, he caught at the floating ends of her white veil, and held them, as if he would thus anchor her to himself.

"Forgive me," he pleaded. "I'm afraid I'm too desperately unhappy to know what I am saying."

"I know—I'm unhappy, too."

With the fatalism of youth they had accepted their tragedy as final. He still held the end of her veil in his hand, but her face was turned away from him.

A little breeze came from the west, and there was a dark line of cloud below the gold.

"We shall have to go home on the train," Justin said, as he noted the whitecaps beyond the bay. "There's too much wind to make it safe for us to fly."

"Then we must go now. It is very late."

"I can telephone Sophie from the gatekeeper's house. It's on the other side of the church. And I'll telephone to the men to come after the hydro-plane."

She assented listlessly, and they walked on.

The church, when they reached it, showed itself an ancient edifice. Built of English brick, it had withstood the storms of years. Its bell still rang clearly the call to Sunday service, and at its font were baptized the descendants of the men who slept in the old cemetery.

As they reached the steps, a man who was digging a grave hailed them. "If you and your wife would like to look in," he said to Justin, "you can bring the key to me at the gate. I'll be there when you come."

He unlocked the door for them. They heard his retreating footsteps, and knew that they were alone. Then Justin spoke with quickened breath. "That is as it should be—my wife——"

Out of a long silence she whispered, "Please—we must not—we must not——"

"Surely we have a right to happiness——"

She had left his side, and her voice seemed to come faintly from among the shadows: "Hasn't everybody a right to happiness?"

"Why should we think of everybody—it is my happiness and yours which concerns us—sweetheart."

She did not answer, and, following her, he found that she had entered one of the high-backed, old-fashioned pews, and was on her knees.

Hesitating, he presently knelt beside her.

It was very still in the old church—the old, old church, with its history of sorrow and stress and storm. One final blaze of light illumined the stained glass window above the altar, and touched the bent heads with glory—the bright uncovered head and the veiled one beside it.

Then again came dimness, darkness—silence.

They were in the vestibule of the church before he spoke to her.

"Did you pray," he asked, "for me?"

"I prayed for all men and women—who love——"

He laid his hands on her shoulders and gazed down at her with all of his heart in his sad young eyes. "There must be some way out of this," he said. "Surely God can't be so cruel as to keep us apart. Why, we are so young, dear one, and there's all of life before us—think of all the years."

The look with which she met his glance had in it all the steadfastness of awakened womanhood. "You said out there that I could be brave and patient. Help me to be brave—big brother."

"Don't," he said, hoarsely; "don't call me that. It's got to be all or nothing. But whatever comes, whether you marry me or marry Anthony—I'm going to love you always. I'm going to love you until I die, Bettina."



CHAPTER XVIII

PENANCE

Miss Matthews' cold proved to be bronchitis, and Bettina insisted on nursing her.

"Please let me," she said to Anthony the morning after her flight with Justin. "I suppose I'm in disgrace, anyhow, and this shall be my penance. Only it won't be very severe punishment, for I shall love to take care of her."

"What good is penance if you aren't penitent? I'm perfectly sure that if that young rascal should ask you to go again you'd go."

"It was glorious."

"But very dangerous."

She shrugged. "You do dangerous things every day. Doesn't he, Sophie?"

"Of course."

"That's different. I do such things to help others."

"And I do them to please myself."

"And to please Justin?" There was an impatient note in his voice. "I have told him that he must not ask you again, Bettina."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say a word." Anthony smiled at the memory. "He just looked at me as if he would like to punch my head, and turned on his heel and left me."

"Are you angry with him?" anxiously.

"He's angry with me."

"Oh, dear!" Betty sighed. "Sophie gave me a terrible lecture when I came home last night; didn't you, Sophie? And now you and Justin have fallen out, and I'm the cause of all the trouble. I'll go and look after Letty Matthews, and you can learn to love me when I'm gone."

In spite of the lightness of her tone, there was a quiver in her voice which brought both of them to her feet.

"My dear child——!"

"Betty dear——"

Bettina smiled at them with misty eyes. "Please let me go, and when I come back everything will be straightened out—and we'll all live—happy—ever after——"

Nothing that they could say would change her decision, and they were vaguely troubled by it, feeling that she had erected between herself and them some barrier of reserve which they could not break down.

Sophie voiced this in a worried way when Bettina had gone up to pack the little bag which Anthony was to convey with her precious self to Miss Matthews. "Perhaps I shouldn't have said so much, but when she came she seemed so unconscious of the dreadfulness and danger that I'm afraid I scolded a bit."

"She's such a child! Do you think she will ever grow up?"

"Of course. Diana feels that she has many womanly qualities——"

Anthony, standing by the window, fixed his eyes steadily on the blue distance as he asked:

"What do you hear—from Diana?"

"I've a letter." Sophie rummaged among the papers on her desk. "And there's a bit at the end that will please you—you know Diana and her enthusiasms——"

"Yes, I know——"

His head was still turned away as she opened the thick folded sheets.

"Shall I read it to you?"

"Please."

"She says she likes the hotel, and the people, although she doesn't see much of them. But this is the part you'll appreciate:

"'There's a wonderful bit of woodland, Sophie, back in the hills, and every day I go there and dream. I thought for a while that I had lost my dreams—but now they are coming to me again in flocks—like doves. And yesterday came the best dream of all. I have been trying to think what I could do with my future, and I've thought of this: I'll build a place up here in the forest where Anthony's sick folk can come when they begin to get well, and thus I can finish the work which he begins——'"

She paused, as Anthony faced her. "Why didn't she write that to me?" he demanded, almost roughly. "Didn't she know it would mean more to me than to you—than to anybody——?"

Then with the sudden consciousness that he was showing his heart he stammered, "Forgive me—but you know what I think—of Diana?"

Sophie was infinitely tactful. "Of course I know what you think of her—she's the most wonderful woman in the whole wide world; and that's a great plan of hers—to have a haven for your convalescents."

He made no answer, but just stood very still, looking out, and when Bettina came down with her little bag, they went away together.

Miss Matthews in a gray flannel wrapper was shivering over an inadequate fire.

"Why aren't you in bed?" the doctor asked.

"Because there is no one to answer my bell, and no one to wait on me—and I'm perfectly sure that if I ever let myself go to bed I shall die."

"Nonsense," briskly. "I've brought Betty back with me, and she's going to stay and see that you're made comfortable."

Miss Matthews' face brightened. "She's the only person in the world that I'd have fussing over me."

"I shall stay here and boss you to my heart's content," Bettina told her.

"Oh, dear," Miss Matthews sighed rapturously, "how good that sounds. I—I want to be bossed. I'm so tired of telling other people what to do—that last day at school I thought I should go to pieces."

"Well, you're not going to pieces," Anthony assured her; "you're going to bed. And when I come back I shall expect to find you asleep."

Bettina, coaxing Miss Matthews to be comfortable, brushed her hair in front of the revived fire.

"What pretty hair you have," she said, as she held it up so that the light might shine upon it. "What makes you spoil it by doing it up in that tight knot?"

"I don't know any other way," wailed Miss Matthews. "I've never had time to be pretty."

"I'm going to braid it," said Bettina, "and by evening it will be waved."

Miss Matthews submitted, luxuriously. "It seems so nice to have some one fussing over me. I don't believe anybody ever brushed my hair before."

Bettina, having hunted out a box of her own belongings, was trying different colored ribbons on the little lady's pale brown locks.

"Do you know, Letty, pink is your color? Yes, it is. Blue makes you look ghastly. Now I'm going to tie this twice around your head so that it will hide all the tight pigtails—I got that idea from Diana."

As she finished the somewhat elaborate process, there came steps outside.

"It's just me," said the voice of the little captain.

Bettina peeped through the door, and announced; "Miss Matthews is sick."

"I know. I met Anthony Blake, and he told me; and what I want to know is, can I do anything——?"

"Nothing—thanks."

"Yes, he can," said the hoarse voice of the invalid. "He can come in. If he doesn't mind my head, I shan't mind him."

The captain, entering, found Miss Matthews in a big chair, her feet covered by a steamer rug, her gray flannel apparel hidden by a white wool shawl which had belonged to Betty's mother, and topping all was the wonderful head-dress of rose-colored ribbon, beneath which Miss Matthews' plain little peaked face looked out wistfully.

"Well, now," said the captain, as he shook hands, "that pink becomes her, don't it?"

Miss Matthews blushed. "Betty fixed it."

"I always did like bright things on wimmen," said the captain, earnestly, "and I like that pink."

"Of course you do," said Betty; "all men like pink, except those who like blue, and now you must go away, for I've got to put my patient to bed."

"Don't you cook anything for her," said the captain, as he backed out of the door, his eyes still gloating over the rosy-beribboned lady on the hearth-rug. "I'll bring you over a bowl of hot chowder to-night, and if there's anything else you want, you just let me know."

"Delia will look out for the other things," said Betty; "she's going to send little Jane to help me. But we shall be very glad to have the chowder."

With Miss Matthews asleep at last, Bettina sat down to write a note to Justin.

It was very brief, and began abruptly:

"I am going to tell Anthony. I lay awake all night and thought it out. It wouldn't be fair for me to marry him—unless he knew. I'd get to be just a shivery shadow, Justin, afraid that he would find that I didn't love him—that I loved somebody else.

"But I can never tell him with his grave eyes watching me, so I'm going to write, now—to-night. It almost seems as if poor Letty had been made a sort of instrument of Providence so that I could be here at this time. I couldn't stay at Diana's with everything over between me—and Anthony.

"Oh, Justin, will he ever want to be friends with us again? Will Diana ever forgive us?

"I wish you were here. Yet you mustn't be here—not until everything is settled. Somehow I don't dare think that we can ever be happy. It doesn't seem right to think of it, does it?

"But I love you."

She gave her note to the little captain when he came with the chowder.

He brought something beside the chowder. In a square box, smelling of sandalwood, was an exquisite kimono of palest pink crepe, embroidered with wisteria blossoms.

"It has been lying in an old trunk for years," he exulted, as he shook it out before her delighted eyes. "When I saw her," he nodded toward the door of the inner room, "when I saw her with that pink ribbon in her hair, it just came to me how nice it would be if she had a wrapper or somethin' to go with it. And after I got home I went rummagin' around until I found this."

"It's lovely," said Bettina; "she'll be simply crazy over it, captain."

"The funny part of it is that I bought it in foreign lands, thinking that some day I might get married, and I'd give it to my wife—and now I'm givin' it to her."

Bettina sparkled. "Oh," she said, "I believe you're in love with her, captain."

The captain sat down in a chair by the fire. "Well," he said earnestly, "it's like this. I ain't ever thought of her that way, exactly. It always seemed to me that she knew so much, and that I was such a rough old fellow. But lately—well, she's been lonely, and she ain't been well. And all of a sudden it has kind o' seemed to me that, if I ain't smart, I've got a tender heart, and I'd know how to make a soft nest for her to live in, and it seems to me that maybe, after all, she might throw me in along with all the rest of the reasons for getting married. I guess most men are sort of thrown in. Of course the wimmen don't know it, but what they get married for is to have a parlor of their own, and a kitchen of their own, and somebody to fuss over, and it don't make much difference what man they hang their tender affections on, just so he provides the kitchen and parlor. Now here's Letty Matthews, all tired out with teaching, and this is my time to step in. If she'll ever take me she'll take me now, and as soon as she's well enough to hear me say it, I'm going to ask her."

"If Letty marries you, it will be because she loves you—she's that kind. She'd die sooner than take a man for what he could give her."

The captain's face fell. "Oh, Lord," he groaned, "she won't take me just for—myself——"

"You try and see."

"If you can put in a good word for me," the captain urged anxiously, "you do it."

"When a man wants to marry a woman," said his young adviser, "there's just one way to get her. He must just keep at it, captain."

The captain stood up. "Well, what I want to say is this—I shan't ever look at my garden without thinking of her sittin' some day among the flowers, I shan't ever eat a meal without thinking how nice she'd look pourin' out my coffee in a nice bright dress, and I shan't ever go for a day's fishin' without seein' her in the other end of the boat. And every time I shut my eyes, I'll think of her wearin' pretty things like my mother used to wear. Why, I've got money, that I can't ever use, just lying in the bank and waitin' for somebody to come and spend it. And while I like my own way of doin' things, I can get a likely man to help around the house."

"A man?"

"Yep. I couldn't ever boss a maid. And I ain't goin' to let her"—he jerked his head toward the inner door—"I ain't goin' to let her drudge and cook and scrub. So I'll get some lad that's been a ship's cook, and don't like the sea, and we'll keep things nice for her, and she can fuss around the garden and make calls on the neighbors and sit with me when I smoke. For wimmen, after all," concluded the wise little man, "are liked best by the men when they'll listen. A talkin' woman may catch a man, but the kind that holds him is the kind that sits and listens."

He went away after that, and Bettina carried the pink robe to Miss Matthews. "Oh, Letty, dear," she said, "just see how gorgeous you're going to be."

She opened the box, and let out a whiff of foreign fragrance. But when the beautiful pale-tinted thing was laid across the bed, and Bettina had explained that it was the captain's gift, Miss Matthews looked solemnly at her friend. "If you think I'm going to wear that," she croaked, hoarsely, "you're mistaken."

"Of course you're going to wear it."

"Of course I'm not. I—I'd be afraid."

"Afraid—oh, Letty."

"Yes, I would. I've never worn such things. I'd be afraid I'd get a spot on it, and it wouldn't come out. Now when a woman like me has a thing like that she just lays it away to look at. Then she always knows that she has one lovely garment. But if she wears it, she feels that the day will come when it will be gone, and then—she won't own one beautiful thing in the wide world—not one single beautiful thing."

Bettina bent over her soothingly. "There," she said, "you wear it once, Letty, and then, if you wish, you can put it away."

* * * * *

Late at night, Anthony came on his last round of calls and urged that Bettina should have a nurse to take her place. But Bettina refused.

"I took care of mother alone," she said. "I can surely do this."

Every moment that she was with him she was conscious of the difference in her attitude toward him. She had a nervous fear that he might notice the change in her, that he might read her heart with his keen eyes.

But he seemed preoccupied, and just before he went away he said:

"You haven't promised me one thing, Bettina."

"What, Anthony?"

"That you won't fly again with Justin. I think I shall have to ask that you make it a definite promise."

"Suppose I won't—promise."

"I think you will," he said, in his decided way. "You and I, all through our lives, will each have to defer to the wishes of the other. If I knew that a thing worried you greatly I am sure I should refrain from doing it—I should like to know that you felt that way about me—Bettina."

Something of the old tender quality had crept into his voice. Once more they were alone in the shadowy room—but outside now was the darkness of the night instead of the darkness of the storm. Perhaps some memory of her first impulsive response to his wooing came to him as he took both of her hands in his. "There's some barrier between us of late," he said. "I'm a plain blunt man, and I don't know what I may have said or done. Have I hurt you in any way, child?"

Here was Fate bringing opportunity to her. This was the moment for revelation, confession.

But she could not tell him.

She stood before him with bent head.

"You haven't hurt me, but there is something I should like to say to you. May I write it—Anthony?"

He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him.

"Are you afraid of me—dear?"

"Oh, no——"

"Then tell me now——"

"Please—no."

For a moment he studied her drooping face, then he patted her on the cheek. "Write it if you must—but you're making me feel like an awful bear, Bettina."

He sighed and turned away.

She put out her hand as if to stop him, but drew it back. Then she followed him into the hall, and stood watching him, with the light from the old lantern again making a halo of her fair hair. But this time she did not go down to him in the darkness. The spell was upon her of a pair of mocking eyes, and of a voice which had sung with her celestial harmonies.



CHAPTER XIX

HER FATHER'S RING

It was late the next night before Bettina found time to write a letter to Anthony. The town clock had struck ten, and Miss Matthews was asleep in the inner room. As Bettina settled herself at her desk there came through the open window the fragrance of the sea—the night was very still; she could hear across the harbor the beat of the music in the yacht club ballroom, and there was the tinkle of a mandolin on some anchored boat.

She found it difficult to put on paper the things which she decided must be said. Striving to explain she tore up sheet after sheet, then, growing restless at her repeated failure, she rose from her desk and crossed the room to the cabinet in the corner. In one of the drawers was a packet of letters from her mother. They were exquisite in phrasing and in sentiment. She wondered if she might not borrow from them something of their grace.

As she opened the drawer, her eyes fell on the little carved box. Mechanically she reached for it, and touched the spring. Then she stood staring down at her father's ring!

The words which she had once said to Diana echoed insistently in her ears: "People who can love many times, who can go from one person to another, aren't worth thinking about."

Why—she was like her father! He had loved once, and then he had loved again—and he had broken her mother's heart!

Shuddering, she flung the ring from her, and it rolled under the cabinet. She knelt to grope for it, and, having found it, she shut the box. But, like Pandora, she had let out a whole army of evil fancies, and they continued to oppress her.

When she went back to her desk she could not write, and at last she put away her papers and, wrapping herself in her long white coat, climbed to the cupola.

She had slept there many times with her mother. With only the stars above them, and on each side a view of the wide stretches of the sea, they had talked together, and Bettina had learned the beauty of the older woman's nature; having suffered much, she had forgiven everything.

"Your father," she would say, "was like a child seeking the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He was always looking for romance, forgetting that the most wonderful romance is that of the hearthstone and of the quiet heart. If he had ever really loved he would have known the joy of self-sacrifice, of self-effacement—but he did not love——"

"Love is self-sacrifice." Such had been the verdict of the woman who had given all, and who had received nothing. It was a hard philosophy, acquired after years of dreariness, and the child had listened and absorbed and believed. She had heard nothing of love's fulfilment, of the raptures of mutual tenderness. Hence she had been content with Anthony's somewhat somber wooing, until that moment when she had drifted with Justin through infinite space, and had learned the things which might be.

The thought of herself as mistress of Anthony's big house by the sea weighed heavily upon her. In those great rooms she would move softly for the rest of her days. Anthony would work and read and ponder, and when he was at Harbor Light she would sit lonely through the gray winter evenings, and the sad summer twilights. But with Justin—oh, the limitless possibilities!

With him each day would bring its wealth of vivid experience—there would be always the glory of his strength, the uplift of his radiant youth!

She put the vision from her. So had her father striven for joy, and he had missed all the great meanings of life—and she would not be like her father.

The wind was rising, and wailed fretfully above the waters. The stars were blotted out.

Bettina shivered. What a dark world it was!

She rose and went down-stairs. Again she sat down to her desk. But this time she wrote rapidly, and the letter that she wrote was not to Anthony!

When she had sealed and stamped it, she crept down the shadowy stairway, thence to the narrow street.

The mail box was at the corner, and she sped toward it; as she came back on flying feet, a whisper reached her from the darkness of the garden—a whisper which made her heart stand still.

"Betty——"

"Justin——"

He emerged from the shadows. "I didn't dare to hope I should see you. I ran away from the yacht club dance—and I'm due back there now. But I wanted you. I think I must have wished so hard that I wished you here. I wouldn't ring for fear I should wake poor Miss Matthews."

His eager whisper met no like response. "You shouldn't have come," she said, dully.

He bent down to look at her. Under the light from the street lamp he could see the disorder of her fair hair, the frightened look in her eyes.

"Dear one—what is it?"

"You mustn't call me that. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes. That's why I came—I knew that by this time you would have written to Anthony—that you were—free——"

"But I haven't written to Anthony."

"You haven't? Wasn't that the letter you just mailed?"

"No—I was mailing a letter to you——"

A sudden fear clutched him. "What did you have to say to me?"

"That—oh, Justin, I can't give Anthony up——"

"Why not?"

"Oh——We can't talk here. Come up-stairs quietly—we mustn't disturb Letty."

She glided ahead of him, and when he came into the shadowy room she was standing by the cabinet.

"I've something to show you," she said, and opened the carved box and held it out to him.

"It's my father's ring," she said; "he broke my mother's heart—and I won't break Anthony's."

Then, in halting sentences, she told him how that day she had come upon the ring. She told him her mother's history. And he listened, and insisted at last, tenderly, that she had made mountains out of mole-hills. But he found her obstinate.

"I must not break my promise," she insisted. "Happiness could never come to us."

And, white and wistful in the face of his flaming arguments, she held to her determination until he left her.

He had turned away wrathfully, and had reached the top of the winding stairway, when he heard her sobbing.

He came back swiftly, and gathered her in his arms.

"You're mine," he said, holding her close. "You know that, Betty."

She drew back from him. "Please," she begged, and so he let her go, and made his way blindly out of the room.

Miss Matthews sleeping feverishly, became aware above the sighing of the wind of an intermittent sound of woe.

She sat up and listened, put one foot out of bed, then the other, and throwing on her old gray wrapper, wavered toward the threshold of the door between the two rooms.

By the flickering light of the candle which burned on Bettina's desk she could see the little shaking white figure on the floor.

"Betty child," she said in a hoarse whisper, "dear child—what's the matter?"

"Oh," Bettina sat up and pushed her hair back from her tear-wet face, "oh, I've waked you up. I think I just forgot that there was any one in the whole wide world except myself——"

The expression on her tragic face told keen Miss Matthews that there was some deep trouble which needed help.

"You come right into my room," she said. "I don't dare stay up another minute. But I couldn't sleep if I tried, with a storm coming, and you can tell me all about it——"

But when she was settled luxuriously once more among her pillows, and with Betty curled up at the foot of the bed, an awkward silence fell between them.

At last Betty said, "Justin Ford was here. He's in love with me—Letty—but I sent him away——"

"Why did you send him away?"

"Because—because I'm not going to marry him, Letty——"

"Why not——"

"There's some one else. Some one who gave me these—Letty——"

She lifted her left hand with its burden of sparkling jewels.

"Who on earth?" Miss Matthews demanded.

"Anthony."

"Anthony Blake?"

"Yes."

Miss Matthews dropped back limply.

"You'll have to tell me from the beginning," she said, faintly. "I can't quite grasp it——"

And Bettina told—of her loneliness, of Anthony's wonderful offer, and of her glad acceptance of it.

"Well, your mother would have been delighted," Miss Matthews said; "but somehow it doesn't seem right."

"Why not——?"

"Oh, I'd fixed it up that you were going to marry Justin Ford. Captain Stubbs and I watched you that day we went fishing, and if ever two young things seemed to be in love—well——"

"I—we are in love, Letty."

"Then why in the world are you going to marry Anthony Blake?"

"Because I've promised—and I can't be like my—father. And I can't hurt Anthony—not when he has been so good to me."

She was sobbing again, and into the eyes of the little woman who had never had a daughter came a look of motherly solicitude.

"Dear child," she said, "if you are just going to marry Anthony Blake because you are grateful, don't you do it. No man wants a woman who feels that way—and you wouldn't make him happy——"

"But—I've sent Justin away—and he's angry with me. That is why I was crying when you found me——"

She was on her knees now beside the bed, and the old maid's arms were about her.

"There—there, dearie, you've thought too much about it, and you've come to believe that it's the things you like to do which are wrong. And it's really the other way."

Miss Matthews was thinking rapidly. There was some mystery. Anthony Blake was in love with Diana Gregory. He had always been in love with her. No one need try to tell her that he was not, for she knew. Then why was he engaged to Betty, and why had Diana gone away?

She had a sudden inspiration.

"Listen, Betty, there's just one person who can straighten things out, and that person is Diana Gregory. Men aren't any good at a time like this. They think with their heads, but women think with their hearts, and that's the kind of thinking that you need most now——"

"But, Letty——"

Miss Matthews waved her away. "You go and write to Diana and mail it to-night, and then come back and keep me company. I'm afraid of the storm."

It was at that very moment that Anthony was also writing to Diana. When he had left Bettina he had gone straight to Harbor Light and into a little inner office where he was guarded from all intruders by the assistant who sat in the anteroom. Not even a telephone could sound its insistent note in this place where the doctor gained, in a reclining chair, his few brief moments of rest, or where he worked out the intricacies of perplexing problems. Now and then he saw a patient there, but rarely. Usually he shut his door against all distracting influences, and gave his attention to the things which concerned himself alone.

What Sophie had told him about Diana had sent his thoughts flying to the wonder-woman up there in the woods. Even when he had talked to Bettina he had felt the consciousness of his thought of her.

Out of a full heart he wrote, holding back nothing, and when he had sealed and stamped his bulky missive, he, like Bettina, went forth to mail it.

As he passed through the garden a sudden gust of wind scattered a shower of rose petals in his path. That there were storms in the distance was evidenced by the low rumble of thunder and the vivid flashes of light.

It was on nights like this that his patients grew restless—poor abnormal things they were, afraid of life, afraid of death, seeing in wind and rain and in the battle of the elements the terrors of the supernatural.

But the night fitted in with Anthony's mood. He still wore his white linen office coat. His hat was off, and his gray hair was blown back from his forehead. The salt air exhilarated him. He felt a sudden lightness of heart. He wanted to shout like a boy. He had been grave for so long—but now his message had gone forth to Diana—to-morrow she would read it, and in two short days the answer would come.

He made his way to the beach; the vivid flashes showed the heaving blackness of the waters—the waves came in with a sullen roar.

He thought of the night when he had stood there with Diana, and when the moon had made a silver track. To-night there was no light—except Minot's—like a star. "I-love-you," it said to the lonely man who stood there in the darkness.

From somewhere in the garden a voice called him, then a nurse came running.

"I saw you go out," she panted; "perhaps you'd better come, doctor—they are getting all worked up about the storm."

Thus was his life made up of duty. There was never an uninterrupted moment. His strength was always being drawn upon to uphold the weakness of others. To-night his whole nature craved the tumult of the wild night. Yet he must calm himself to meet the needs of those who leaned upon him.

As he turned to follow the nurse, a big car whirled through the gate, and there sounded the trilling laughter of girls, the deeper jovial bass of young men.

Beneath the brilliantly-lighted entrance of Harbor Light the car stopped, and as Anthony came up, Sara and Doris descended with much shaking out of filmy dancing frocks.

Sophie, with seeming unconsciousness of the havoc which the rain had wrought on her lovely black gown, made a smiling explanation to Anthony.

"Justin and Bobbie tried to get the top up—but something caught and I thought we should all be drenched. And then your Harbor Light shone out to welcome us——"

Anthony was glad that they had come. He craved the lightness and brightness. He seemed suddenly to be one of them again—not a sad and somber being set apart. He had a sense of relief in Bettina's absence. It was as if her youth and beauty showed the contrast of his age.

He took them up to his sitting-room, then excused himself to make his rounds. "I'm going to have something sent up for you to eat—I know what slim fare they give at the club on the nights of the dances. I'll be with you soon."

While they waited for him Sara played; Bobbie and Doris danced—and Justin talked with Sophie.

He looked worn and white, and a line cut deeply into his forehead.

"I owe you an apology," he said, "for yesterday. But I couldn't help it. Bettina was so little and lovely—you know I wouldn't harm a hair of her head——"

Something in his voice made Sophie lay her hand on his. "My dear boy, my dear boy——"

"I'm awfully hard hit," he said, "but she—she's turned me down. I fancy it was our last flight together. Do you remember Browning's 'Last Ride'—

"'And heaven just prove that I and she, Ride, ride—together—forever ride——'?

"Well, my heaven will be a place where she and I shall drift through infinite space—together——"

He stood up. Sara was coming toward them—a brilliant little figure in a flame-colored gown.

"I'm not going to bore you with my worries," Justin said, quickly—"but—I—I wish you'd be awfully good—to Bettina."

Sophie carried away with her that night the vision of his tragic young face, and before she went to bed she wrote to Diana, and her letter ended thus:

"Oh, dearest girl, oh, dearest girl, what have we done, what have we done——!"



CHAPTER XX

THE "GRAY GULL"

The morning after the storm Justin went forth, moodily, for his morning flight.

He found opposition, however, to his ascension. "Wait until the afternoon," was the advice given him; "there's a nasty wind."

He would not listen, but he delayed his departure, preferring to start alone, and eventually the other aviators drifted off, and he made the "Gray Gull" ready.

Going down to the pier for a last peep at the weather, he was hailed by Captain Stubbs.

"I am going to take Anthony Blake out for a day's fishin'," the little man said, as his motor boat chugged comfortably within easy talking distance. "He telephoned last night that he wanted a day away from his work, and I said that the fish would be running after the rain. I'm always mighty glad to have him go with me. He's a born fisherman. His great-grandfather and mine fished together on the banks, and our grandfathers were part owners in the same schooner. But Anthony's father went to the city and studied medicine, and his son followed in his footsteps, so that's the way the Blake boys got switched off from fishin' as a business. But it's in their blood."

"Look here," Justin interrupted, "I want to ask you a question, captain, and it's about Anthony. Did you ever think he was in love with Diana Gregory?"

"Well," the captain meditated, "I ain't ever thought much about it. But Miss Matthews sees a lot, and she told me once that Anthony Blake wouldn't ever look at any other woman but Diana, and that Diana was just keeping him on the string."

"I can't exactly fancy Diana as that sort of woman."

"Well, it ain't anything against a woman that she don't know her own mind," was the captain's philosophical reflection. "Most men don't know their own mind when it comes to marryin'. Only the difference is this: a man loses his head and asks a girl, and then he wonders if she's going to make him happy. And a woman hesitates about sayin' 'Yes,' but when she once decides, she sticks to a man through thick and thin."

In spite of his gloom Justin smiled. "Where did you learn it all, captain? You are as wise as if you had been married to a half dozen wives."

"There's a sayin'," the captain explained, "that a sailor has a wife in every port. That ain't true. Sailors as a rule are constant men. But they see a lot of wimmen creatures, and they learn that there ain't much difference, when it comes to lovin', between a Spanish lady who flirts with her eyes, and a Boston lady who flirts with her brain. They're all after the same thing, and that's a home, with a big H, and it's a credit to them that they are—otherwise we men wouldn't ever know when to settle down."

"Yet it's because of a woman that some of us never settle down." Justin's young eyes were looking out stormily upon the gray world. "It's because of some woman that we wander and are never satisfied."

The little captain gave him a keen glance. "Well, you won't ever have to worry," he said; "all you've got to do is to keep at it till you find the right woman. That's what that Betty child said to me the other day. 'Captain, if a man wants a woman, he's got to keep after her until she says 'Yes.'"

"Did Betty Dolce say that?"

"Yes—she's a smart little thing."

But Justin's thoughts were not of her "smartness" but of her pathetic loveliness. All night her sobs had echoed in his heart. When he had driven his gay party home after their stop at Anthony's, he had ridden for miles alone in the storm. He had welcomed the beat of the rain in his face. He had yearned for some adventure which would shut out that vision of the shadowy room.

But no adventure had been forthcoming, and so he had sought his uneasy couch, and had tried to sleep, and had risen at the first crow of cocks.

He brought his mind back with difficulty to the captain. "I'm going up this morning, captain. I'll wigwag to you and Anthony if you're outside."

"Don't you go," the little captain advised earnestly; "this isn't any morning to fly. There's all sorts of storms about, and you can't tell what minute you'll get into one."

"Didn't you like to sail your ship in a storm—didn't you like the excitement of it—the battle with the wind and waves?"

"That's different. I knew my ship was seaworthy. I knew what I had to face in an ordinary storm. But you take one of those Chinese typhoons, or a hurricane that blew up from the Gulf, and I didn't enjoy it. Not a bit. I'd go miles to get out of one, and I learned this, after I had looked death in the face a hundred times, that foolhardiness doesn't pay. You go slow, and wait for a quiet day."

Justin laughed recklessly. "I'll take my chances."

"Well, there's no fool like a young fool." The little captain started his motor with a jerk, and its comfortable chugging was at once changed to an angry snort.

Justin did not at once go back to the sheds. He climbed a path which led to the adjoining hotel, and made his way to the writing rooms.

The people who lounged on the porches looked at him curiously as he passed. Those who had been there longest whispered to the newcomers the magic of his name. More than one girl remarked the beauty of the somber young countenance, and the strength of the straight young figure.

In the writing room of the big hotel Justin wrote to Diana. It was his last hope. He wrote hurriedly, using the elaborately monogrammed house paper, and his script was interspersed with dashes, with now and then a boyish blot.

When he had finished he went to the desk of the girl in the corridor who sold post-cards and magazines, and bought a stamp.

Anthony was delayed, somewhat, in starting out with Captain Stubbs by the news that Miss Matthews was worse.

He found her with a high fever, and he also found Bettina in a state of agitated apology.

"I'm afraid I talked to her too late. But we—we were afraid of the storm."

"She'll be all right in a few hours, but you've got to get some rest. I'll send a nurse."

"No—Sophie said she would come—early this afternoon—and then I can sleep—and I've had little naps on the couch——"

As he turned to go he stopped and said, with some hesitation: "You didn't write the letter to the Big Bear, Betty."

She blushed. "I'm not going to write it."

"Why not?"

"Because—I've changed my mind about it—I've really nothing to tell you—and every woman has a right to change her mind."

She tried to say it saucily, but was not successful, and he, vaguely relieved, responded, "I'm glad—that you are not troubled," kissed her lightly on her forehead, and went away. And she looked after him and sighed, and wondered if all the years which stretched before them would be as dreary as this.