It was well after midnight when, by common consent, the will to retire for the night claimed them. Knowing the deep regard that existed between Grace and Emma, Elfreda had arranged matters so that they might room together. Although Anne was Grace's oldest friend, she had cheerfully resigned her claim on Grace to Emma for the week.

"Well, Gracious, how is everything?" were Emma's first words when at last they had shut themselves in their room for the night. "I can't begin to tell you how dreadfully I've missed you. It gives me the blues every time I think of Overton next year without you. But I know you are happy, and that's at least one consolation."

"It's a mutual miss, Emma," assured Grace. "I have thought of you a great deal and wished you were with me at home. Aside from not being able to have my dearest friends with me all the time, my happiness has been so complete this summer that I feel as though I ought to walk very softly, for fear of losing some part of it."

"I understand. It's always so. One wonders if it's even wise to mention it for fear of breaking the spell," mused Emma. "I suppose the best way to do is to plod steadily along and not think much about anything but the day's events. By the way, are you very sleepy?"

Grace shook her head. "Not a bit. On the contrary, I'm wide awake."

"Then let's doff our festival garb, clothe our magnificent selves in kimonos and have a talking-bee," proposed Emma joyfully. "I'll give you a faithful account of affairs in darkest Deanery, if you will agree to furnish me with an equally detailed account of Harloweville doings. Is it a go?"

"It is," acceded Grace with equal heartiness.

A little later, seated Turk fashion on Grace's bed, the two tried comrades indulged in one of the protracted talks that had invariably ended their day's work when together at Harlowe House. It was an extremely confidential session, yet there was one bit of information which Grace could not find it in her heart to divulge. Though it had been over a week since she had said good-bye to Tom Gray, aside from a brief letter written to her on the train just before his arrival at a little town some miles from the lumber camp, she had received no further communication from him. Within herself she argued that she had really no cause for alarm. No doubt Tom had been too busy to write. Perhaps he had written her, but, due to the isolation of the camp, had encountered difficulty in mailing a letter to her. She would have liked to put the situation before Emma, yet loyalty to love forbade her to speak of it even to this trusted friend.



CHAPTER IX

THE MEANING OF SEMPER FIDELIS

Father Time has an unfortunate habit of scudding along at a tremendously rapid pace over the delightful roads of life. It is only when the ways are rough and stony that he is prone to lag and linger. To the reunionists the prospect of a week spent together had offered limitless possibilities. Once that coveted period of time had become theirs, it proceeded to vanish in an alarming fashion. On Monday they had congratulated themselves and one another that six glorious days were still theirs. By Wednesday they had begun to mourn that only four were left them.

Life at the Briggs' cottage offered a ceaseless succession of wholesome pleasures. Early morning invariably found the reunionists strengthening their acquaintance with the ocean. Breakfast over, a bathing suit procession to the nearby beach became the usual order of things. They spent long sunny hours playing about in the surf, or stretched at ease on the white sand, exchanging an apparently exhaustless flow of light-hearted conversation relating to almost everything under the sun. Imbued with tireless energy, their afternoons brought them fresh entertainment in the way of long automobile rides to various points of interest, followed by jolly little teas or dinners along the way. The annual excursion to Picnic Hollow, which claimed the greater part of a whole day, was also a memorable occasion. Evening, however, usually overtook them at the cottage. By common consent they tabooed the more formal social entertainment which the various hostelries at Wildwood offered. Only on one occasion did they diverge from their clannish programme in order to attend an informal hop given by Elfreda's friend, Madge Morton, at her father's cottage.

During their stay at the Briggs' cottage the previous summer, they had been given the opportunity of meeting this charming young girl. Shortly after their arrival she had come over from the Morton cottage to pay them a friendly call. Greatly attracted to her, on first meeting they had greeted her warmly and invited her to share their good times.

Madge and Grace had a bond in common in that while Grace was preparing to be married to Tom Gray, Madge was trying to decide whether or not she should pledge herself to marry Tom Curtis. Before the week ended she had confided her problem to Grace and the two girls discussed the subject long and earnestly. Yet despite such friendly counsel as Grace felt privileged to give, Madge could come to no definite decision.

Though five days of smiling sunshine had added immeasurably to the welfare of the devoted company, Saturday morning dawned gray and threatening. Before breakfast was over the ominous prediction of storm was fulfilled. Amid reverberating peals of thunder, heavy raindrops began to fall. They were merely the prelude to a furious downpour which descended in silvery sheets, and fairly overflowed the discouraged landscape. A strong wind rose, lashing the leaden expanse of sea into a white-capped fury quite foreign to its hitherto deceitfully dimpled aspect.

"It's a horrible day," conceded Elfreda Briggs gloomily. "We can't do any of the things we've planned. No bathing, no motor trip, either, unless this deluge stops, which doesn't seem likely."

"Oh, it may clear up," comforted Emma Dean. "I've seen worse days than this suddenly brace up and smile. Let's possess our souls in patience. Incidental to the process we might restore the shattered faith of some of our deluded correspondents. During the past six days it has pained me to observe the postman arrive, full-handed, to turn away, alas, empty-handed. I ask you as man to man—why this thusness? Now that we are about to depart, it might be well to apprise our neglected families of the fact."

"Emma, you are a noble woman," declared Miriam with deep conviction. "I may not have noticed it before, but better late than never. I move that we organize a writing school in the living-room for the purpose of squaring ourselves with our too-trusting families and friends."

"What's the use in writing home now?" demanded Julia Emerson. "Sara and I would get there almost as soon as our letters. We have to go to-morrow, you know."

"I know." Emma held her handkerchief ostentatiously to her eyes. "Never mind. You may write to me. You know I have always admired your nice vertical handwriting. It takes me back to my first-reader days."

"Sorry I can't oblige you," giggled Julia, "but I'm not in the mood for letter writing. I'm going to pack my trunk and send it to the station before Sara has a chance to stuff half of her belongings into it."

"Such sisterly devotion," murmured Emma.

"Oh, I don't mind," was Sara's cheerful comment. "I've already packed my sweater and two dresses in Julia's trunk. You'd better leave them there, Julia, I haven't an inch of room left in my trunk to squeeze them into. It is already jammed so full that you'll have to sit on the lid when I get ready to lock it."

"Stung!" was Julia's inelegant comment. "This is what comes of being a twin. I think I'd better hurry and gobble up the small trunk space that is left me; otherwise I may have to carry a large part of my wardrobe home in a bundle." Dread of such a contingency sent her fleeing up the stairs in hot pursuit of her own welfare, oblivious to the pleasantries which Emma and Sara called after her as she ran.

Seated around the long library table in the living-room, the correspondence party made an attractive picture as, with earnest faces, they bent themselves to the arduous task of letter-writing. With the exception of Grace, all present were soon hard at work. One hand resting lightly on a sheet of the monogrammed paper which Elfreda had provided in profusion, with her other hand Grace nervously gripped her fountain pen. Should she or should she not write to Tom? Although she owed the usual amount of letters to various correspondents, she now thought only of writing to the man for whose strange silence she could not account. It was Tom's place to write her. She had answered his first letter. Yet she could not believe that carelessness was responsible for his silence. Something must have happened to him. But what? She knitted her brows in an agony of indecision, then giving her pen an energetic shake that betokened definite purpose, she began:

"DEAR TOM:

"It is now over a week since last I heard from you. What——"

The loud ring of the doorbell caused her to break off abruptly the sentence she had begun. With that curious intuition which sometimes manifests itself unbidden, she was seized with the startled conviction that the bell had conveyed the news of an arrival important to herself. Listening with an anxiety she could not yet understand, she heard a man's deep tones raised in inquiry. Then came the lighter voice of the maid who had answered the door. Then——

"Miss Harlowe," the maid had entered the living-room and addressed her, "there's a special delivery letter come for you. Will you please sign for it?"

"Thank you, Alice." Grace sprang to her feet and hurried into the hall. The messenger handed her a letter and shoved his book toward her, indicating the place for her signature. Hastily signing and returning the book, Grace dismissed the man, and sank to the oak settee in the hall, her heart thumping wildly. She had already recognized the handwriting on the envelope, not as Tom's familiar flowing hand, but as the spidery, wavering script of Mrs. Gray. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope and read:

"DEAR GRACE:

"Have you heard from Tom? I am dreadfully worried. I have only received the one letter from him of which you already know. It is not in the least like him to thus put off writing me. He knew before he went that I should be uneasy about him, and promised faithfully to write me every other day. For the sake of your anxious and bewildered Fairy Godmother, will you come to me as soon as possible, if you have not heard from him? If so, then telegraph me to that effect and I shall rest easier. I have put off writing you from day to day, in the hope that I might receive news of my boy, and also because I could not bear to spoil your pleasure. But as it is now Friday and you will receive this on Saturday, I know that if you have received no word from him, you will not mind coming home a day earlier than you had planned. Once we are together again, we can decide on some method of action. Thus far I have done nothing. Believe me, my dear, only my great anxiety compels me to ask you to make this sacrifice.

"Yours lovingly,

"ROSE GRAY."

The letter sliding from her nerveless fingers, Grace saw her surroundings through a swirling mist. For a moment or two she yielded to the terror that clutched at her heart. Her sturdy nature reasserting itself, she rose, recovered the letter and walked slowly into the living-room.

"Girls," she said, her voice a trifle unsteady, "I must leave you at once. I—Mrs. Gray needs me and has sent for me. I am sorry I can't tell you the reason. I am sure you will understand that I am giving you as much of my confidence as I can." She paused, her gray eyes looking utter affection on the startled group about the table. "I want you to promise to finish the reunion just as happily as though I were with you. Later, perhaps I can tell you what I mayn't tell you now. It is not yet eleven o'clock, so I am sure I can catch the noon express."

Grace's remarkable announcement drove the business of letter-writing to the winds. A bevy of sympathetic girls gathered about her, sending up a concerted lament. Yet none ventured to inquire into the cause of her departure, or to ask her to reconsider her decision to depart at once. Loyal to the core, her wish was their law. Each eagerly offered her services in behalf of the love they bore her. Torn though she was by the shock of this new sorrow, Grace could not help thinking as she stood there, how gloriously worthy were these staunch comrades to bear the name Semper Fidelis.



CHAPTER X

THE SHADOW DEEPENS

"Oh, Fairy Godmother, what does it mean?" The tall, slender girl, who had been obsequiously ushered into Mrs. Gray's stately, old-fashioned house on Chapel Hill, darted down the hall and straight into a pair of arms outstretched to receive her.

"I—don't—know—my dear. I wish I—" Mrs. Gray's broken utterance ended in a sob, as she laid her silvery head on Grace's breast. Until that moment she had remained calm. The sight of one who was equally enveloped in the shadow that had dropped down upon her, proved too much for her. Clinging to Grace, she sobbed heart-brokenly.

"There, there, dear Fairy Godmother. You mustn't cry so!" Grace's own voice was husky with emotion. "You have me with you now to comfort you. Cheer up. I am sure that everything will turn out all right. It's—dreadful—of course—not—to hear from Tom," Grace faltered briefly, "but I—we must keep thinking he is safe and well and that we may receive a letter from him at any minute. I didn't wait to go home. I knew you needed me, so I came straight from the train here. Mother doesn't even know yet that I am in town. Come into the library and sit down in your own favorite chair." Bravely stifling her own heavy anxiety, Grace wrapped an affectionate arm about the dainty little old lady and drew her into the long room which had been the scene of so many of their confidential talks.

"There you are!" she nodded, striving to smile. "Just a moment until I get rid of my hat and coat and I'll curl up on the floor at your feet. Then we can talk things over and find out what's to be done."

"You are a dear good child," quavered Mrs. Gray. Under the white glow of the electric lamp, her Dresden-shepherdess face looked pinched and wan. Fear and uncertainty had robbed her small features of that look of perennial youth which so individualized her. "It was thoughtful in you to telegraph me that you were coming. I knew then that you hadn't heard from Tom, but I knew, too, that you would soon be here."

"I hated to telegraph you, knowing you'd worry even more. Still it seemed best." Now ensconced at Mrs. Gray's feet, Grace possessed herself of the older woman's hand. "Please feel that whatever you may ask of me, I will cheerfully try to perform it."

"I don't know which way to turn," was the distracted answer. "I had so hoped that you would be able to tell me that Tom was safe in camp. It's a rather delicate matter, my child. Coming as it does so near your wedding day, it is very necessary that Tom should be located at once. I've already written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom, but as yet he has not answered my letter. Something dreadful has happened to my poor boy. I feel it."

Grace privately agreed with her, yet she would not say so. She knew as well as did Mrs. Gray that only actual mishap would have caused Tom to fail in his duty to his aunt and to herself. "I think we had better telegraph Mr. Mackenzie," she suggested, her voice ringing with new-born purpose. "Then—if he knows nothing of Tom's whereabouts we had better organize a search. First of all we must know if he reached the camp. If not—" Grace stopped, overmastered for an instant by a silent spasm of dread that cut lines of pain in her fine face.

"I don't like to send a telegram from Oakdale," demurred Mrs. Gray. "These small town operators are not always to be trusted. If the story were to creep about that Tom Gray had disappeared, so shortly before his wedding day, it would be very painful for both you and me. I could, of course, consult a private investigator in New York, yet I shrink from doing so until I know definitely that Tom has disappeared. It is such an intimate, personal matter. I don't fancy turning it over even to my lawyer. You can understand that."

"Yes." Grace had grown very pale at the possibility of the tender romance of her Golden Summer being held up even to the little world of Oakdale as a subject for gossip and possibly harsh criticism. Seized with a blessed thought she said: "There is one person at least whom I think we ought to take into our confidence. That person is David Nesbit. He and Tom have always been like brothers. He will help us. I'll write him now, before I go home, and ask him to telegraph Mr. Mackenzie. A telegram sent from New York will never give cause for gossip here."

Rising to seek her traveling bag which she had deposited in the hall, she hastily rummaged in it for her fountain pen. The sight of Mrs. Gray's pitiful face had completely aroused her to the need for prompt action. Re-entering the library she approached the massive writing table with the quick assured step, so characteristic of the brave spirit with which she had always faced adversity. From a drawer of the table she selected note paper and an envelope to match and seating herself, prepared to plunge intrepidly into the writing of the most difficult letter she had ever been called upon to pen.

"Dear David:" she wrote, then groped about in her mind for the words which would best convey to Tom's chum the sorry message she was fated to deliver. It was not a long letter, yet she knew that the recipient would read between the lines and fully comprehend the serious situation which confronted herself and Mrs. Gray. When she had finished writing it and signed her name, she next devoted her attention to the wording of a telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, setting it down on a separate sheet of paper.

"Please read them, Fairy Godmother," she requested, tendering the fruits of her painful effort to Mrs. Gray.

"You are right in believing David to be the best possible confidant," sighed the old lady as she returned the letter and telegraphic message to Grace. "We can rely on him absolutely."

"I must go now. It is after nine o'clock. I will hurry to the nearest drug store for a special delivery stamp and mail the letter at once. I wish I might stay with you longer, but I feel as though I ought to go home. You don't mind if I tell Mother and Father? It is within their right to know."

"Of course it is," readily agreed Mrs. Gray. "I only deferred telling them until I had talked with you, Grace. I can't begin to tell you how much having you here has comforted me. I feel a trifle more cheerful already. Perhaps, after all, we have been running out to meet calamity. To-morrow may bring us word that Tom is safe and well." Rising from her chair, Mrs. Gray embraced Grace tenderly.

"I hope so." Forcing herself to smile encouragingly down at the wan little figure beside her, Grace bent and kissed the old lady's cheek. For a moment the two clung together, their mutual devotion deepened by their common sorrow. Gently disengaging herself from Mrs. Gray's arms, Grace donned her hat and coat and, with a last fond word of cheer, soberly sought the door and stepped out into the starlit night.

Alone with her sorrow, her late attempt at cheerfulness fell away from her like a cloak. Deep dejection settled down upon her as she walked down Chapel Hill toward home. The very beauty of the fragrant, starry night hurt her. She wondered if those some far-off stars, twinkling so remotely aloft, held the knowledge of Tom Gray for which she mournfully yearned. Why had this dreadful uncertainty intruded itself into the very heart of her Golden Summer? Had she boasted of her happiness only to see it snatched rudely from her life? Suppose Tom were never to return? Suppose even the knowledge of his fate were to be denied her? Over and over again she had read in the newspapers of the strange disappearances of persons, the mystery of which defied solution. The horror of her gloomy apprehensions sent a chill to her heart that caused it for an instant to stand still, or so it seemed to her.

"I mustn't think of such frightful things," she breathed. "Tom is all right. I must make myself believe it. Now is the time to be brave; to go on steadily without faltering. Tom will come back to me. Wherever he is or whatever has happened to him, he will come back. I know it."



CHAPTER XI

POSTPONING HAPPINESS

But Tom Gray did not come back. Neither by word nor sign did those who feverishly awaited news of him receive even the faintest intimation of his whereabouts. Added to the heavy strain that Mrs. Gray and Grace were laboring under, they were destined to grapple with the question: Why had David Nesbit not responded to their plea for assistance? After three weary days of waiting, Grace wrote to Miriam Nesbit asking if David were in New York City. Miriam's prompt reply stated that business had called David to Chicago. She expected that he would return to New York that very day. The information brought the comforting assurance that once the letter had come into his possession David would not fail them.

On the evening following the receipt of Miriam's letter, an anxious-eyed young man swung off the eight o'clock train into Oakdale, and hailing a taxicab was whirled away from the station toward the Harlowe's home.

"David!" was all Grace could find words for, when, entering the living-room, her girlhood friend sprang forward to meet her with outstretched hand of sympathy.

"I'm more sorry than I can say, Grace," David burst forth, as, motioning him to a chair, Grace sat down opposite him. "I was delayed in Chicago and didn't reach New York until this morning. My mail wasn't forwarded to me, so I didn't get your letter until then. I sent your telegram to Mr. Mackenzie, then caught the first train for Oakdale. Did you get my wire?"

"Yes. I've been anxiously watching for you. It's dreadful—David." Grace's voice trailed away into a stifled sob. Brave as she had tried to be, David's belated presence was almost too much for her composure.

"I should say it was." David looked utter concern over the sad errand that had brought him to Grace. "Tell me everything, Grace. I must know the facts if I am to be of real service to you."

Fighting for self-control, Grace narrated briefly the little she knew concerning Tom's strange disappearance. "Mrs. Gray had written Mr. Mackenzie about Tom before I wrote you. I explained to you in my letter that he was ill. That was Tom's reason for going away up there to that dreadful camp. Mr. Mackenzie writes that Tom never arrived. He was very much upset over it as he had been depending upon Tom to look after things until he was well again. Poor Aunt Rose is nearly distracted. She has put the matter in the hands of a private investigator. He hasn't had time to reach the camp yet so, of course, we haven't heard from him. Fairy Godmother has forbidden him to telegraph her at Oakdale. She is afraid some one may find out about Tom and gossip." The sickness of hope deferred lay in Grace's eyes as she finished speaking.

"I'm going up to that camp, Grace," announced David with strong determination. "I'll catch the next train for New York and arrange my business to-morrow morning. By afternoon I'll be on the way to Tom. If he is to be found, I shall find him. Who is the man Mrs. Gray has engaged to clear up the mystery?"

Grace named a man whose professional standing in his particular field ranked high.

"A very clever man," commented David. "He ought to do something toward straightening out this snarl."

"We can only hope that he will," was Grace's sad response. "Excuse me, David, until I call Mother. She is so anxious to see you. Then we had better go to Aunt Rose. You will find her greatly changed. This trouble has aged her. She looks 'years old,' rather than 'years young.' That wonderful spirit of youth has deserted her. It could hardly be otherwise."

"Poor little Fairy Godmother!" sympathized David. "It's a shame that trouble like this had to come when all three of you were so happy. I can't make myself believe that it is good old Tom who's among the missing. A sturdy, fearless fellow like him can usually be trusted to take care of himself anywhere. Why, he's tramped all over this country and never met with any accident that I can remember. You and I know that something serious has happened this time, though. Tom would never neglect those he cares for, even in the most trifling matters."

"I am sure of that. Still it's good to hear you say what I know to be true. Nothing could shake my faith in Tom. It is absolute." Grace spoke with the frank simplicity of perfect love and trust.

During the short walk that lay between the Harlowe's residence and that of Mrs. Gray, David cast more than one covert but admiring glance at the tall, slender girl at his side who bore her difficulties with such signal sweetness and courage. "What a splendid girl Grace is," was his thought. Looking back on their earlier days of comradeship, he recalled gratefully what a power for good she had always been. She had valiantly steered Anne through the breakers that more than once had threatened engulfment. Through Grace, his own sister, Miriam had been shown the way to sincerity and well-doing. Mabel Allison, Ruth Denton, Eleanor Savelli and countless other girls owed the greatest joys that had come to them to this high-principled, impulsive, kindly girl who had lavishly scattered the flowers of generosity and good-will along the pathway of life. Now, at last, there was something which he could do for Grace. David vowed within himself to leave no stone unturned which might be the means of restoring to her the happiness which she so richly merited.

The visit to Mrs. Gray proved a severe trial to both young people. Her usual optimistic viewpoint had long since deserted her, leaving her a wan little ghost of the vivacious Fairy Godmother who had once entered so merrily into the doings of her Christmas children. A fixed air of melancholy had dropped down on her which even David's hearty assurances that Tom would soon be found failed to lift.

"If any one can find Tom it will be you, David," was the nearest approach toward hopefulness which she could muster.

"I'll find him, never fear," predicted David with an air of cheerful certainty that brought faint smiles to both women's somber faces. "I must leave you soon, though, in order to make that late train for New York. Before I go, I'll devise a secret code so that I can telegraph you here at Oakdale if anything good comes to pass."

Grace supplying him with pencil and paper, David jotted down several sentences which he was most likely to need in sending messages, then substituted different words to be used in place of the originals. This bit of thoughtfulness on his part was eminently cheering, and when soon afterward he took hasty leave of Grace and Mrs. Gray the latter appeared to be in a less lugubrious frame of mind.

After he had gone, Grace followed Mrs. Gray into the library, the old lady's favorite room in the big house, and, drawing a chair opposite to that of her near-aunt, began rather hesitatingly, "Now that David has left us, there are several things, dear Fairy Godmother, that I must say to you. They are mainly about—our wedding day. Only the Eight Originals and a few of the 'Sempers' know that the time was actually set for the tenth of September. They are all intimate friends, tried and true. I think it is only right that I should explain matters to them. Not one of them would break a confidence.

"If I am not married to Tom on the tenth, naturally they will wonder. It would be dreadful for me to have to say to any one of them, 'I can't explain why the wedding must be postponed.' They love me and I love them. We've always shared our joys and sorrows. It doesn't seem fair to leave them in the dark. Naturally it will hurt me a great deal to explain, but it will hurt me far more not to. I have talked with Mother and Father about it. They both feel that the decision must rest with you. It's too bad to bother you with this new perplexity, but I must know one way or the other. I can't endure the suspense."

At the beginning of Grace's earnest plea that her closest friends be put into possession of the knowledge that Tom Gray was among the missing, his aunt's delicate face showed unmistakable signs of disapproval. Swept along by the girl's fervent earnest words, Mrs. Gray felt her brief abhorrence of the idea vanish in an overwhelming flood of admiration for the dauntless spirit in which Grace bore the torturing dread that had been thrust upon her.

"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Grace," she faltered. "While I've been nursing my own selfish grief you have been putting aside your sorrow to think of others. After all, you have more at stake than I. My life has been practically lived, while yours is only at its dawn. I have known the bitterness of losing those I loved. It should have taught me to face the future more courageously. When you spoke just now of letting others know of our trouble, it seemed for a moment as though I could never consent to it. But I have changed my mind. It would not be fair either to you or my poor boy, wherever he may be, to place you in a false position. I have only one stipulation. Wait a little longer before telling your friends of this dreadful disruption of our plans. If within the next three days we have not heard from Mr. Blaisdell, the investigator, then write to your friends and let them know the exact circumstances."

"It breaks my heart to hear you say such things of yourself," was Grace's passionate cry. Springing to her feet she knelt before the older woman and wrapped two shielding arms about her. "You've always thought of others. I won't let you say that you are selfish, or that your life has been almost lived. You've been as brave as a lion ever since this terrible trouble came to us. You have just as much at stake as I. We must stand together, even more firmly than before, waiting and hoping that all will be well. Before Tom went away he often said that he hoped our life together would always be one long Golden Summer. I'm not going to let winter overtake me now when my Golden Summer's hardly begun. This is just a brief cloud that hides the sun. It will pass and we'll all be happy together again. Just because our plans have all gone awry is no sign that they always will. Postponing our wedding day doesn't mean saying good-bye to happiness. It's only a brief postponement of happiness, too."



CHAPTER XII

THE BETTER PART

Although Grace had so sturdily asserted her claim on happiness, nevertheless she quailed secretly before the ordeal of writing to her friends regarding the change in her plans. Long she pondered before committing the gloomy information to paper. More than one anguished tear fell from her eyes as she relentlessly pursued her difficult task. Not so very long ago she had fondly dreamed of the time when she should happily send to those she loved the summons to come to her on her wedding day. But the pile of envelopes which eventually found their way to the nearest mail-box contained news of a vastly different character.

True to her promise she had conscientiously waited for the word from Mr. Blaisdell which Mrs. Gray had anticipated. At the end of three days of suspense she had sought her Fairy Godmother only to meet with a letter from the investigator which sent hope to the winds. In it he stated that aside from the station master at the lonely little railway station, he had encountered no one who recalled seeing a young man of the description of Tom Gray. He had learned from the former that Tom had halted him to inquire the way to the camp and to ascertain if he could obtain any means of conveyance on that day. As it was then four o'clock in the afternoon and no one from the camp had met the train, the station master had warned him that a storm was coming and advised him to wait over until the following morning, offering Tom the hospitality of his own home. The young man had politely declined his offer, saying that he must reach the camp that night and would walk. He had said good-bye and swung off toward the dense growth of forest that rose behind the straggling hamlet, and nothing further had been seen or heard of him.

Further inquiry at the camp, which Mr. Blaisdell had experienced considerable difficulty in reaching, had developed the alarming news that no such person as Tom Gray had been seen in that vicinity. He had gleaned, however, that the station master's prediction of bad weather had been verified and that a particularly heavy windstorm had swept that region early in the evening of the day on which he had talked with the young man. Torrents of rain had fallen and trees had been broken down and uprooted. It was possible that Tom had lost his way and been killed by a falling tree. Blaisdell did not believe this, however, as neither a dead nor injured man had been found by the various search parties of lumber men who had been sent out to cover the surrounding territory. So far as possible the search had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. He had not divulged Tom's name. As the camp was in an out of the way place, peopled by a taciturn set of men who asked few questions, it was not likely that any news would travel farther than its limits.

The day following the receipt of this letter brought a telegraphic notification from David Nesbit to the effect that he had reached the lumber camp and was about to start on his search for his chum. With this small consolation, the patient, tortured souls who awaited news of their lost one were forced to be content.

Hard as it had been to write to her trusty comrades, it was infinitely harder for Grace to receive the messages of sympathy and love which poured in upon her. Yet on the heels of her distress came one letter which, despite the gravity of her present situation, moved Grace to half-hearted laughter. On opening an envelope addressed to herself in Arline Thayer's unmistakable script, Grace was mildly astonished to read:

"DEAR STANLEY:

"After our talk last evening I am quite certain that I could never be happy as your wife. It has shown me clearly that our aims and viewpoints are so entirely different that it would be useless even to dream of spending the remainder of our lives together. It is hard to write this, but I feel that no matter what it may cost me I must be true to myself. I am therefore returning your ring and letters by express. You may do as you think best in regard to returning the letters I have written you.

"With a sincere wish for your future happiness,

"Yours sincerely,

"ARLINE THAYER."

Tardily realizing that she had unwittingly perused a communication not intended for her eyes, Grace lost no time in writing an apologetic letter to Arline in which she enclosed the fateful missive of rejection. How Arline had come to mail it to her was a matter for speculation.

But she had only set eyes on the beginning of a drama as she was soon destined to learn. Late the next afternoon, while seated on the front veranda with her mother, she viewed with mingled emotions a taxicab which had come to a full stop before the house. Out of it stepped a small, golden-haired young woman whose smart pongee traveling coat and bulging leather bag proclaimed that she had come from afar.

"Arline Thayer!" cried Grace, running down the steps to meet the newcomer as she passed through the gateway. "Why, Daffydowndilly! This is a surprise! You are the last person I had dreamed of seeing." Grace caught the dainty little girl in a warm embrace.

"I know I should have telegraphed you," apologized Arline, "but—well—I didn't. I made up my mind all in an instant to come to you, and here I am. Ever since I received your letter you've been constantly in my thoughts. I replied at once. Of course you received it?"

"Let me take your luggage, Daffydowndilly." Grace evaded Arline's implied interrogation for the moment. "Come and pay your respects to Mother, then we'll go upstairs to your room and you can rest a little before dinner. You must be very tired after your long ride. Then, too, we can exchange confidences. I have something to say to you about the letter you just mentioned." Grace could not refrain from smiling a little. She suspected that Arline had made a mistake, the precise result of which was yet to be revealed.

"What is the matter, Grace?" was Arline's quick question. She had instantly detected the unusual in her friend's enigmatic smile and evasive speech.

Their progress to the veranda, where Mrs. Harlowe waited to greet the unexpected but heartily-welcome arrival, prevented Grace's reply. It was not until Arline had been ushered into one of the large, airy upper chambers which Grace took so much pleasure in reserving for the use of her frequent guests, that the former again repeated her question in tones of deepening anxiety.

"I will tell you when you have made yourself comfortable," stipulated Grace. Assisting Arline in removing her hat and coat, she applied herself assiduously to the comfort of her friend.

"You are a truly ideal hostess, Grace," was Arline's tribute as she finally settled herself in a deep willow chair. "Now I am ready to hear what you have been keeping from me."

"You asked me if I had received your letter," began Grace as she dropped into a nearby chair. "Yesterday morning I did receive a letter you wrote, but it was not for me. The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter—I read it before I realized that I hadn't that right—was written to Mr. Stanley Forde. I wrote you an apology, enclosed the other letter with it and mailed them to you."

"Oh!" Arline gave a horrified gasp. "How perfectly dreadful! How in the world did I happen to make such a mistake! This is awful!"

"Then you wrote to me at the same time and confused the two letters? I was afraid of that. But it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't to you." Grace tried to put on an air of kindly unconcern. Secretly it saddened her a trifle to know that a stranger had received even an inkling of her private affairs. Undoubtedly Arline's letter to herself had contained an expression of sympathy which could not fail to put Mr. Stanley Forde in possession of certain painful facts relating to her own trouble.

"But it matters a great deal!" exclaimed Arline, flushing deeply. "In that letter to you I said that I could never be thankful enough that I had had such a wonderful talk with you. I said, too, that you had made me see things in a different light and that I knew now that what I had believed was love wasn't love at all. Worse still, I said that if it had not been for you I would never have had the courage to break my engagement, but would have failed to be true to myself. Now, Stanley has that letter!" Arline made a despairing gesture. "I don't care what he thinks about me, but what will he think about you?"

Grace was not prepared to answer this pertinent question from the jilted Stanley's viewpoint. Personally she had a disagreeably clear idea of what he was quite likely to think. Yet she was too sturdily honest by nature to regret the advice she had given Arline in good faith. "I am sorry this has happened," she returned slowly, "but I am not sorry for what I said to you. I meant it. I would have said as much to Mr. Forde had an occasion risen which demanded plain speaking."

"You are Loyalheart, through and through," came impulsively from Arline. "You would stand by your colors to the death. I couldn't blame you if you were terribly angry with me for mixing you up so miserably in my affairs. I should have been more careful, but I was dreadfully upset when I wrote those letters. You see, Stanley came to my home on the evening of the day he returned from Oregon. As you know, I had decided to have a plain talk with him. It began pleasantly enough, but before it ended we were both very angry. He declared point-blank that after we were married I would positively have to give up my settlement work. He said a great many hateful, sneering things about the poor people I've been trying to help. I was going to give him back his ring then, but I remembered what you advised about not being too hasty. So I told him I wouldn't discuss the subject with him any more that evening.

"After that he was very pleasant. I suppose he thought he had won me over to his point of view. When he had gone I sat for a long time on the veranda thinking hard. Then I went upstairs to my room and wrote him, breaking our engagement. Of course I cried a little. I was so unhappy. Then I thought of you and felt like writing you about it. After I had written both letters, I read them over; first the one to him, then yours. It was after midnight and I was so tired. I suppose that is how I happened to make the mistake of putting your address on his letter and vice versa. He will be simply furious. I only hope that he doesn't write you a hateful letter. If he writes to me, I'll send the letter back unopened. You'd better do the same."

"No; I couldn't do that. It is perfectly proper for you to do so, but it would appear cowardly on my part. Let us hope he doesn't bother to write me. Does he know my surname and where I live?"

"Yes; I've told him of you a great many times. I wish now that I hadn't. I am sure he will write you. It's a shame. I came to Oakdale to comfort you and be comforted. Now I've landed both of us in a nice muddle." Arline lifted a pair of mournful blue eyes to Grace.

In the presence of impending tragedy a sudden sense of the ridiculous swept the two girls. Their eyes meeting, they began to laugh. It was the first genuine mirth that had stirred Grace Harlowe since the day on which she had left the Briggs' cottage to return to Oakdale.

"One ought not laugh over such a serious matter," apologized Arline, with a half hysterical chuckle. "But I can't help thinking how surprised you must have been to receive that letter to Stanley, and how wrathful he must be by this time."

"I'd rather laugh over it than cry," smiled Grace. "Don't worry, Daffydowndilly. I'm not afraid of any letter that Mr. Stanley Forde may choose to send me. You had better write him another letter at once, though, and explain matters. You owe him that, at least."

"I will," sighed Arline. "There's just one thing more I have to say. I shall never, never fall in love again. It's fatal to one's peace of mind. Now that I've fallen out of love, I feel about a hundred years younger. I'm going to be a nice, kind, spinster and found a home for poor children."

Grace smiled at this naive announcement. She was unselfishly glad that Arline could thus lightly cast her burden from her dainty shoulders. Perhaps she, too, would have known greater content, had love not entered her heart. Yet in the same instant she put away the thought as unworthy of herself. Come what might she was intensely sure that she had chosen the better part.



CHAPTER XIII

AN INNOCENT MEDDLER

Arline Thayer had entered Grace's home life at a moment when the latter most needed the inspiring companionship of an intimate friend. Quickly recovering from her own woes, it was borne upon Arline that she must exert herself to the utmost to cheer up the girl who had never failed her. The blithsome joy of living which, formerly, Grace had seemed to radiate had entirely disappeared. Although she went about the house, feigning desperately to maintain a cheerful attitude, a subdued air of wistfulness clung to her that filled Arline with a fierce resentment against the circumstances that had risen so unexpectedly to rob Grace of her happiness. She frequently wondered how it was possible for Grace to keep up so bravely in the face of such crushing adversity. Given the same sinister conditions, Arline admitted inwardly that she could never have maintained the remarkable composure which Grace daily exhibited.

She was thinking of this when, on the afternoon of her third day's sojourn with the Harlowes, the two young women had just left Haven Home behind them, Grace having asked Arline to accompany her on one of her frequent pilgrimages to her beautiful House Behind the World. Usually it was Nora Wingate who went with her. Occasionally Mrs. Harlowe bore her daughter company.

Grace never visited Haven Home empty-handed. Always she carried some new treasure designed by herself or her friends to adorn the stately habitation in which she felt sure that some day would indeed mean Haven Home to herself and Tom. Before he had left her to make the journey that had resulted in his complete disappearance, she had promised him that the finishing labors at Haven Home should go steadily forward. Those who knew her most intimately could readily testify that she was unfalteringly keeping her word. In moments of darkest depression she wondered from whence came the strength that enabled her to go on with these visits, each in itself a separate agony. She had been plunged for a moment in one of these painful reveries when Arline asked with an inflection of wonderment, "How can you be so brave, Grace?"

"I'm not very brave," she answered, her eyes wistful. "Not so brave as I wish I were. I have to struggle continually to make myself believe that whatever happens must be for the best. I often feel bitter and resentful and wonder why this sorrow should have been visited upon me rather than on some one else. Of course, that is wrong. No one ought to wish their troubles shifted to other folks' shoulders. Thousands of persons have greater griefs than I. Take Aunt Rose, for instance, who lost her husband and daughter so many years ago. Tom was the light of her life; her greatest pride. Think what she is suffering! We had such high hopes that David Nesbit would find Tom. Yet, thus far, he hasn't met with even a clue. Poor little Fairy Godmother says she has only one thing for which to be thankful. No one in Oakdale knows about Tom, barring a few trusted friends. She had been in constant fear lest the newspaper reporters should get hold of it. Of course it would be a severe shock to her to pick up some day a paper and read, 'Mysterious Disappearance of Tom Gray,' or 'Young Man Mysteriously Disappears on the Eve of His Wedding Day,' or some cruel scarehead of the kind. I don't quite know how I should feel about it."

"But suppose he never came back," cut in Arline, her usual tact deserting her. "Forgive me, Grace," she added penitently. "I should not have said that."

"Why not?" Only the sudden tightening of her lips betrayed that Arline's thoughtless inquiry had struck home. "I faced that long ago. If we continue to be without news of him, sooner or later his disappearance must become known. But Aunt Rose prefers to keep it secret as long as possible. Her constant prayer is that he will return before any such thing comes to pass. Sometimes I think it would be better if it were generally known. I hate secrecy."

During the drive to Mrs. Gray's, both girls were unusually silent. After leaving the roadster in the Gray garage, they went up to the house to spend an hour with the lonely old lady, whose pitiful efforts to be cheerfully hospitable cut them both to the heart. Promising to come again on the following day they left her, the forlorn little chatelaine of a big house, grown oppresively empty since robbed of Tom's genial presence.

As they neared Grace's home, both glimpsed in the same instant a taxicab standing in the street directly opposite to the house.

"That taxicab is from the station!" exclaimed Grace. "Hurry, Arline, it may be—" She broke off short, her heart thumping madly. She dared not voice the hope that perhaps her weary waiting was over.

Arriving on the veranda, Grace made a hasty entrance through the open hall door. Pausing in the hall, deep masculine tones, issuing from the drawing room, caused her to speed toward the sound, Arline at her heels. The voice was not Tom's, yet her first wild conjecture as she viewed the stranger seated in a chair near the door, was that he might be Mr. Blaisdell, the investigator, with news of Tom.

A faint cry of, "Stanley Forde!" from Arline sent over her a sickening wave of disappointment. As they entered, the young man rose, looking the reverse of amiable as he stepped forward, grim purpose in every feature. Ignoring Grace he addressed himself to Arline with the stiff rebuke:

"I have been waiting for you for some time."

"I did not expect you." Arline's blue eyes flashed forth her displeasure. Merely touching the hand he offered her, she said, "Mr. Forde, this is my friend, Grace Harlowe."

The young man acknowledged the introduction with an ironical smile in which Grace read trouble ahead for herself. She met him with a frank, kindly courtesy that betrayed nothing of her inner mind. Personally, she was not impressed in his favor.

"You will pardon my leaving you, Mr. Forde?" Mrs. Harlowe had also risen. She now addressed the young man with a distant politeness which Grace recognized as disapproval. From Arline she had learned of the broken engagement. It seemed evident that she also had not been favorably impressed with her guest's ex-fiance.

"Certainly. Very pleased to have met you," bowed the unwelcome caller. Again Grace caught faint sarcasm in the speech.

Hardly had Mrs. Harlowe disappeared when he turned to Grace, his heavy brows meeting in a decided frown. "I believe I am indebted to you, Miss Harlowe, for a great disappointment which has recently come to me. Your unkind interference has caused Arline to reconsider her promise to become my wife. It is fortunate that she made the mistake of sending the letter she wrote you to me. It has put me in complete possession of the facts of the case. I——"

"You have no right to come here uninvited and insult Grace Harlowe in her own house," cut in Arline in a low, furious voice. "You shall not accuse her of interfering. I won't allow it. It is——"

"Please allow Mr. Forde to say whatever he wishes, Arline." Grace's interruption came with gentle dignity. Her gaze resting untroubled on the angry man, she said: "I had no wish to interfere in your affairs, Mr. Forde."

"Then why did you do it?" came the bitter retort. "What grudge could you possibly have against a man you had never even met?"

"None whatever," was the soft answer.

"But you interfered. This letter proves as much." Triumphantly he jerked the misdirected letter from a coat pocket.

Grace was silent. She did not wish to say that Arline had appealed to her for advice, neither was she anxious to remain in the room as a third party.

"I'll tell you the reason," volunteered Arline sharply. "I asked Grace's advice." Her pretty face pale with resentment, Arline poured forth a rapid outline of her talk with Grace. "That's the reason," she ended. "If you had met me fairly when I tried to talk to you about my work this would never have happened. I am glad now that it has. I don't love you and never have truly loved you. I am glad to be free. I shall never marry any one. All men are hateful! Now I wish you to go away, and never, never speak to me again as long as you live!"

But the unpleasant interview continued for another ten minutes despite Arline's pointed dismissal. Mr. Stanley Forde could not forgive Grace for what he rudely termed her "meddling." The idolized son of a too-adoring, snobbish mother, he had nothing in common with Grace's high ideals. Though she explained to him gently that she had only advised Arline to choose whichever course seemed wisest, remembering only that nothing counted so much as being true to herself, her lofty precepts merely tended further to infuriate him.

"You are one of those empty-headed idealists who go about creating disturbances for sensible persons," was the scathing criticism he delivered the moment she ceased speaking. "You will regret this interference in my affairs. Now that you know my opinion of you, will you kindly leave us? I wish to talk privately with Arline."

"I don't wish to talk to you at all," flared Arline hotly. "Please don't leave me, Grace. Whatever Mr. Forde has to say he must say in your presence."

"I am sorry, Arline, but I must ask you to excuse me from remaining longer in the room. Mr. Forde has come a long way to see you. I think you should grant his request for a private talk with you. Good afternoon, Mr. Forde. I regret that you should have so entirely misunderstood my motives." The finality of her words robbed the disagreeable caller of a ready reply. Before he could rally a further relay of rude sarcasm to his aid, Grace had left the room.

If it is indeed true that actions speak louder than words, the distinctly belligerent manner in which, ten minutes later, Mr. Stanley Forde stormed down the walk to the waiting taxicab, gave glaring proof of the dire result of his untimely call. From the garden, where Grace had fled to recover from the irritation of having been so grossly misunderstood, she saw the boorish young man depart. Privately she marveled that Arline should have so deceived herself in regard to her feelings for him. He was undoubtedly handsome, yet his regular features indicated a certain lack of strength and nobility which she thought totally marred his claim to good looks. His large black eyes had a trick of narrowing unpleasantly, and the set of his mouth betokened tyranny.

Her sympathy going out to Arline, she passed slowly among the winding garden paths, lined with colorful summer flowers, and entered the house. The sight of a pathetic little figure crumpled in a disconsolate heap on a broad settee aroused her pity afresh.

"Don't cry, Daffydowndilly," she soothed, sitting down beside her. "He isn't worth it. You were wise in breaking your engagement. Some day real love will come knocking at your door. You were never intended to be a sedate spinster and live out your days in single blessedness. I'm sorry for Mr. Forde. He loves you, I think. But not in the unselfish way you deserve to be adored."

Grace paused, her hand straying gently over the curly head against her shoulder. All of a sudden she felt very aged and very tired. The unpleasant scene with Arline's disgruntled suitor had shaken her severely. She was living out the Golden Summer, that had promised so much, in a fashion far different from the glorious realization of it for which she and Tom had hoped and planned. Yet she had been mercifully spared the pain of beholding a cherished ideal shatter itself at her feet. God had granted her the priceless boon of a true man's true love. Though she and Tom had but briefly glimpsed their Golden Summer, the remembrance of his unselfish devotion would keep it alive forever.



CHAPTER XIV

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Two days elapsed, following the call of the belligerent Stanley Forde, before Arline ended her visit to Grace. Once she had departed, Grace missed her sorely. Her coming had been a timely break in the now sad routine which Grace daily pursued. Many of her Oakdale acquaintances and friends were still vacationing at the seashore or in the mountains. Had they been at home, she would not have sought them for companionship. Aside from the many hours she spent with Mrs. Gray, she clung desperately to Nora and Hippy Wingate. Even jovial Hippy was considerably less lively than of yore. His affection for Tom Gray was only second to his devoted friendship for Reddy Brooks, who had been his childhood's chum. Among the four young men, Tom, David, Hippy and Reddy, an ideal comradeship had ever existed, unfaltering and unchangeable. Tom's sudden and still unexplained removal had cast a pall over the remaining trio that was likely to linger indefinitely.

On the afternoon of the next day after Arline's departure, a highly-excited young man, whose plump, genial face wore an expression of angry concern, hurried up the walk to the Harlowe's veranda.

"Why, Hippy Wingate, what are you doing here so early?" demanded Nora, from the porch swing. "You can't have your dinner yet. It's only four o'clock. When you're invited to six o'clock dinner you mustn't arrive two hours beforehand. Didn't you know that?" This wifely counsel was accompanied by a teasing smile that belied its harshness.

"Don't pay any attention to her, Hippy," called Grace mischievously. "Come up on the veranda where it's nice and cool. I give you permission to sit in the porch swing beside the haughty Mrs. Wingate. Better still, I'll bring you some fruit lemonade and a whole plate of those fat little chocolate cakes you like so much."

"Now I hope you understand at last how much other people appreciate me," rebuked Hippy, as he plumped himself down in the swing with an energy that set it swaying wildly. "I shan't give you a single cake."

"I don't want any. I've had four already. I hope you understand that you've made me prick my finger," retorted Nora, dropping her embroidery to hold up the injured member for inspection.

"Too bad," mourned Hippy, applying the familiar remedy of the devoted. "Did you really lacerate your itty bitty finger? I don't see any signs of it."

"Only the blind can't see," flung back Nora. "All joking aside, what brought you here so early?"

Hippy cast an uneasy glance toward the doorway through which Grace had just vanished. "This," he returned soberly. Unfolding a New York City newspaper, he pointed to a black headline which read, "Young Man Mysteriously Disappears."

Nora drew a sharp breath of dismay as her startled glance traveled down the column. "Where—how—" she stammered.

"I don't know." Hippy glared savagely at the offending newspaper. "I've got to show it to Grace," he deplored. "I'd rather be shot. Some one broke a confidence. It's outrageous in who ever broke it."

"I should say so," agreed Nora. "You'd better—Here she comes now."

Grace stepped into view, carrying a quaint Japanese tray laden with delectable cheer. In her crisp dotted swiss gown of white, her sensitive face a trifle thinner than of yore, she looked hardly older than in her freshman days at high school. "Here you are, weary wanderer," she said gayly. "Eat, drink and be merry."



Hippy groaned inwardly as he sprang from the swing to relieve her of the tray. "Grace," he began with grave affection, "I have something not in the least pleasant to tell you. I don't——"

"About Tom?" Grace's question rang out sharply on the drowsy air.

"It's not bad news of him," Hippy hastily assured, "but it's about him."

"Then tell me quickly." Grace braced herself for the shock, her gray eyes riveted on Hippy.

"Here it is." Hippy handed her the fateful newspaper. "I wanted to be the first to let you know it," he added in sympathetic apology. "I am afraid some one has played you false."

Grace focused her gaze on the flaring headline. Sinking into the nearest porch chair she read on, apparently lost to her surroundings. Raising her eyes at last from the printed sheet she astonished both Hippy and Nora with a quiet, "I am glad of this."

"Glad?" rose the inquiring chorus.

"Yes; glad. During the last two weeks I've felt very queer about keeping Tom's disappearance a secret. At first I dreaded to have any one know, on account of Fairy Godmother's horror of gossip and on my own account, too. She was afraid that some malicious person might start the story that he had purposely dropped out of sight. We know that could not be so, yet others might not share our belief in him. But lately I've been seeing matters differently. So long as the affair is kept a secret, he will never be found. With the news of his disappearance spread abroad by the newspapers, some one may come to light who has seen him or heard of him in some way. I am going to try to regard the public as friends who would like to help us all they can."

"I think you are right about that," emphasized Hippy. "You are true blue, Grace. You have carried yourself through this nightmare summer like a soldier and a gentleman. That's the highest praise I can offer. No wonder you annexed the name 'Loyalheart' at college."

"Grace, have you any idea who furnished the copy for this?" Nora pointed a disapproving finger at the newspaper. "Do you—that is—do you suppose one of the girls—I thought—perhaps——"

"No, Kathleen West would never break her word." Grace smiled whimsically. "You were thinking of her?"

"Yes; I knew she was connected with a newspaper," admitted Nora, coloring.

"None of the girls to whom I wrote about Tom had anything to do with this. I trust them as fully as I trust you. This information found its way into the newspapers through a different channel."

"Then you know who—" began Nora.

"Yes, I know," Across Grace's brain flashed the vision of an angry face, lighted by two narrowing black eyes. She mentally heard a threatening voice predict vindictively, "You will regret this interference in my affairs." The misdirected letter had again created trouble. She recalled having feared this when Arline had explained her blunder in confusing the two letters. Undoubtedly in writing to Grace, Daffydowndilly had mentioned Tom Gray's name and, in expressing her sympathy, had practically gone over the information contained in Grace's letter to her regarding the postponement of her marriage.

"I should like to tell you, children," she continued, "but I can't, because the telling would involve a certain person whose confidence I hold. I will say this much. It was petty spite which prompted the deed." Grace's lips curved in faint scorn. Stanley Forde was truly a person of small soul and less honor. Such despicable retaliation against a woman was the last touch needed to prove his unfitness to protect the welfare of loyal little Daffydowndilly.

"Oh, don't think of us," hastily assured Hippy. "We wouldn't listen to you if you tried to tell us. We understand. All the more credit to you for behaving like a clam. That's a compliment. Perhaps I had better explain. You notice I didn't say you looked like a clam." Hippy tried to infuse a little humor into the situation.

Grace flashed him an amused smile. "'I thank the gods for a saving sense of humor,'" she quoted. Her face instantly sobering she said: "We ought to see Aunt Rose at once about this newspaper affair. Perhaps the three of us ought to go up to her house before dinner. We shall have time."

"Are you sure you would rather not go alone?" Nora put the question in her usual direct fashion.

"No; I wish you and Hippy to go with me. But first, Hippy, you must eat your cakes and drink your lemonade." Grace picked up the well-filled tray which Hippy had temporarily set aside and held it out to him. "Don't let this queer new turn in my affairs drive away your desire for cakes."

"You are the eighth wonder, Grace. If the universe were to turn upside down I believe you'd forget your own jolts and fly to the rescue of the other human nine-pins." Hippy looked his admiration of Grace's sturdy stand under the buffets of misfortune. "I will eat every last one of these alluring tidbits and drink two glasses of lemonade just to show you that I know hospitality when I meet it on a veranda."

"See that you do. Now excuse me. I must show this newspaper to Mother. When I come back we'd better go to see Fairy Godmother."

The confidential session between mother and daughter lasted not more than ten minutes, yet before it ended Grace crept silently into the shelter of her mother's arms to shed a few tears on her all-comforting shoulder. It was not the printed article relating to Tom which prompted them. It was poignant sorrow for his long unexplained absence from her that brought brief faltering.

When she returned to the veranda, where Hippy was busy with the last of the cakes and his second glass of lemonade, her sensitive features bore no sign of her moment of weakness.

"I have kept my vow." Hippy pointed significantly to the empty plate. "Nothing remains but a few discouraged crumbs." Suddenly changing his light tone, he raised his glass of lemonade and said with solemn intensity: "Here's to Tom Gray; a speedy and safe return. I can't help feeling that it will be so."

"Thank you, Hippy." The faint color in Grace's cheeks deepened. A gleam of new hope kindled in her eyes. "You said a while ago that you wondered at my being so calm about Tom. I can't be anything else, because I never allow myself to think that he won't come back. If I did, I'd be utterly miserable. You thought this article in the newspaper might hurt me. Two weeks ago it would have done so. But now! Somehow it seems to me to be the first definite link in the chain that stretches between him and me. It's the beginning of the end, and just as surely as I stand here I believe something good will come of it."



CHAPTER XV

MERELY A LOOKER-ON

The three bearers of the news, which they had reason to believe would prove so disturbing to Mrs. Gray, were doomed to disappointment. They reached her home on Chapel Hill only to find that she had been summoned early that afternoon to the bedside of an old friend who was very ill, and would not return until late in the evening.

Grace was relieved at being thus able to postpone the detailing of the disagreeable news. She was in a quandary regarding loyalty to Arline and loyalty to her Fairy Godmother. She was of the opinion, however, that it was the latter's right to know all, even at the expense of breaking the confidence Arline had reposed in her. She had little doubt that Arline would not object to such an action on her part, yet such was her nature that she found it difficult to accept this view of the subject.

After Hippy and Nora had gone home that evening she wrote a long letter to Arline, setting the matter frankly before her. She knew that before the letter reached her friend, she would have already told all to Mrs. Gray. Still she reflected that she had at least behaved fairly.

But the following morning brought with it the knowledge that Arline had already taken the initiative. Special delivery was responsible for a letter from an incensed Daffydowndilly, which fairly sputtered with indignation. Grace was obliged to smile as seeking its contents she saw:

"DEAREST GRACE:

"That horrible, hateful old Stanley Forde is the most despicable person in the whole world. I was simply furious when I read that article about your fiance, Tom Gray. I called Stanley on the telephone and accused him of giving the story to the newspapers. Of course I knew in a minute it was he. I remembered all I had said in that letter to you which I sent him by mistake. He actually laughed and said that he did it to pay you for meddling. I told him he would be held responsible for giving the story to that newspaper, but he said that as long as it was true, as he could prove by my letter, that the editor of the newspaper had a perfect right to use it if he wished. He pointed out that it was nothing against Mr. Gray's character and therefore legitimate news.

"Then he had the unspeakable temerity to ask me if he might call on me. You can imagine what I said. Thank goodness and you that I found him out in time. I would be happier with a blind, deaf and dumb man who couldn't walk than to be married to such a person. I am so angry. I have written another letter to dear Mrs. Gray explaining the whole thing. She was so sweet to me when in Oakdale that I felt it my duty to tell her everything. Will you go to her and explain even more fully? You can fill in any gaps which my letter to her may contain. Tell her every single thing about me. I wish her to know it. I am sending her letter by special delivery also. Must hurry and post both letters, so I will close. Write to me soon.

"Faithfully,

"DAFFYDOWNDILLY THAYER

("To the end of the chapter.")

Grace laid down this energetic communication with a faintly glad sigh. This snarl at least had righted itself. Suppose it were an omen? "The beginning of the end," she had said. It was a little thing, but in some indefinable fashion her heart grew lighter. As Arline's letter had come to her in time of need, perhaps out of the vast unknown would come some sign of or from the lost one.

Her straight brows arched themselves in surprise as she devoted herself to the reading of a letter from Miriam Nesbit.

"BELOVED LOYALHEART:

"Can you, your father and mother come to New York City at once? Everett and I are to be married on Friday evening at eight o'clock, then take a night train for California. So my well-laid plans for a grand wedding the last of October will have to end in mere announcement cards. But I'll explain. You know I told you of those wonderful open-air performances of Greek plays that have been going on at a spot not far from Ravenwood, the motion picture studio where Everett and Anne filmed Hamlet and Macbeth. To go back to the Greek plays—they will end next week. They have proved so successful that the management wishes to follow them with a series of Shakesperian performances, as they have had requests for them from all sides. To come directly to the point, the stellar honors have been offered Everett, therefore I am about to sacrifice pomp and ceremony on the altar of true love.

"We are to be married in the Little Church Around the Corner where so many professionals have taken their sacred vows. Only my nearest and dearest are to be there. There will be neither a best man nor a bridesmaid and I shall be married in a traveling gown and turn my cherished trousseau into prosaic wardrobe. Even my wedding gown will have to be used afterward, minus the veil, of course, as an evening frock. I have telegraphed David and hope he can come. If he does, he will go back to his search the day after my marriage. Poor Loyalheart, I cannot write you all I feel for you. I'll try to tell you when I see you. Don't disappoint me. I cannot bear to think of going on this new pilgrimage without your being present to wish me godspeed. With my dearest love and sympathy,

"MIRIAM."

"P. S. I hope Fairy Godmother will come, too. I have written her."

As Grace read the signature, the letter fluttered to the floor unheeded. Her generous soul rejoiced at Miriam's happiness, yet never before had the gloom of her own situation struck her so sharply. One by one her trusted comrades were placing their lives in the care of the chosen men of their hearts. Only a little while before she had been of them all perhaps the most buoyant. Her engagement to Tom, after months of harrowing indecision, had always been a matter of reverent wonder to her. She had looked eagerly forward to attending Miriam's wedding. Now she dreaded the thought. She felt that she could have better borne with attending an elaborate and formal wedding than to mingle with the intimate few who would be present at the Little Church Around the Corner. Yet she had no choice in the matter.

Seeking her mother, Grace gave her Miriam's letter. A short consultation in which it was decided that Grace must represent her family at Miriam's wedding, and she was speeding upstairs to pack a steamer trunk. The mere glance at a huge cedar chest in which reposed her own wedding gown sent a chill to her heart. Listlessly she made her preparations for the flitting. She would take the noon train which would reach New York at nine o'clock that evening, provided her Fairy Godmother should decide not to go to the wedding. Should she do so, then they would probably wait until the following morning. At all events she would be ready.

Her labor of packing accomplished, Grace set off for her interview with Mrs. Gray. She found the lonely old lady raised to the nth power of indignation over the deplorable newspaper notice. Anger at that "detestable Forde person" had electrified her into a semblance of her formerly vivacious self. Grace was delighted at the change, but had considerable difficulty in reconciling her wrathful Fairy Godmother to her own point of view.

"I dare say you may be right, child," she reluctantly conceded, after Grace had held forth at length. "That villainous young man may possibly have done us a good turn, unawares. It was sweet in little Arline to write me so beautifully. What a narrow escape she has had, to be sure! If Tom were anything like this miserable man, Forde, I should not care whether or not he ever came back. The publicity of this has upset my nerves completely. We shall have to weather it, I suppose, now that the mischief is done."

"I am glad you can look at it in that light," was Grace's earnest response. "Are you going to New York to see Miriam married, dear?"

"Bless me, I had quite forgotten Miriam's wedding. When is it to be?"

"Then you haven't received her letter!" Grace cried out in dismay.

"I haven't looked at any of my mail, except this letter from Arline. It was first on the pile. Jane gave me the newspaper when I returned last night. She had already seen the article about Tom. Would you mind sorting the mail? Miriam's letter is probably among the others. I have tried to pay special attention to my mail since my poor boy vanished, for fear of missing something I ought to know. But this morning my mind was on Arline's letter and that newspaper. I think I shall have to engage a secretary. You know I've never had one since Anne gave up the position."

Grace, whose fingers and eyes had been busy while Mrs. Gray talked, held up a square white envelope. "Here is Miriam's letter."

"I think we had better go to-day," decided Mrs. Gray, when at her request Grace had read her Miriam's letter. "This is Wednesday. That will give us two days with the Nesbits. As it is only half-past ten we can catch that 12.30 train, provided you are ready. Ring for Jane. She can quickly pack whatever I need to take with me. It is lucky that I bought Miriam's wedding gift some time ago. I really think this little trip will benefit me, though the very idea of attending a wedding gives me the horrors. Still Miriam is one of my adopted children. I hope David can come. I am anxious to talk with him. Strange that he can find out nothing about Tom."

Roused from the listless apathy which had so persistently preyed upon her, Mrs. Gray rattled on with a new and surprising cheerfulness which delighted Grace. Perhaps this was another link in the invisible chain. The sudden upheaval of Miriam's plans for a magnificent wedding had at least benefited one person. Then, too, they would perhaps see David and learn more definitely of the territory which Tom had invaded to his sorrow.

Waiting only long enough to see Mrs. Gray deep in her preparations for the coming journey, Grace hurried home to don a traveling gown, say a fond farewell to her mother and leave a loving good-bye message for her father. A telephone call left with her mother for her during her absence informed her that Nora had heard from Miriam, too. She and Hippy would take the evening train for New York.

"We are rallying to Miriam's standard," Grace declared with a flash of her former enthusiasm, when her mother had repeated Nora's message. "If Jessica and Reddy can manage the trip, then—" She stopped, the smile faded from her face. She had been about to say that the Eight Originals would all be there. Turning abruptly she walked from the living-room, the sentence unfinished. For a brief instant she had forgotten that unless the unknown suddenly yielded up its prey, one loved face would be missing from the Eight Originals.



CHAPTER XVI

J. ELFREDA'S MASTER STROKE

As the twilight of a perfect September day deepened into purple night, a little company of persons crossed the threshold of the quaint Little Church Around the Corner. Though few in number it was a gathering strongly fortified by warm affection. The several passers-by who chanced to see this small procession enter the unpretentious sanctuary had no difficulty in divining their purpose or singling out the chief participants in the affair. The face of the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, gowned in a smart tailored coat suit of brown, wore the shy radiance of a bride. The tall, distinguished-looking man who accompanied her was easily identified as the happy party of the second part.

Though destiny had taken an unexpected hand in Miriam Nesbit's wedding plans, she was perhaps better satisfied to make her vows of life-long devotion in the presence of only those she had known best. Miss Southard, Mrs. Nesbit, David, Anne, Grace, Hippy, Nora and Mrs. Gray were present, as Miriam's nearest, and undoubtedly her dearest. Second in her regard were J. Elfreda Briggs, Arline Thayer, Kathleen West and Mabel Ashe, whose residence in or near New York made their attendance possible. Greatly to the regret of all concerned, Jessica and Reddy had been unable to come to the wedding. Though a decided air of informality permeated the little assemblage, the always impressive ceremony of marriage had never seemed more sacred to the chosen few. At Miriam's earnest request they grouped themselves about her, a fond guard, while the minister, Everett Southard's comrade of long standing, spoke the simple, beautiful words that linked two lives together, "for better or for worse, through good and evil report."

From the moment she entered the Little Church until, the ceremony over, she found herself being helped into the Nesbits' automobile, Grace was as one in a dream. She had noted in absent wonder the play of more than one handkerchief as her friends wiped away the furtive tears that are always as sure to fall in the presence of a great happiness, as when the occasion is one of grief. But she had no tears to shed. Weeks of silent suffering had bereft her of that relief. Her sensitive face grew a trifle more wistful as she listened to the sonorous voice intoning the sacred words, but her brooding gray eyes remained dry. She alone knew the agony of dull pain which clutched persistently at her heart.

During the ceremony more than one pair of sympathetic eyes strayed from Miriam and Everett Southard to the slender, white-clad girly whose grave, sweet mouth and unfaltering glance told of a strength that came from within. In the thick of the congratulations which followed, there was not one of those who adored Grace who did not yearn to turn to her and comfort her. Yet her very composure made consolation impossible. They realized that she was sufficient unto herself.

On the way to the station, where the Southards were to entrain almost immediately for the West, she talked in her usual cheerful strain to Mrs. Nesbit, Mrs. Gray and Elfreda Briggs, who shared an automobile with her. David and Anne were in the Southards' limousine with Miss Southard and the newly wedded pair, while the other members of the party had followed in a larger automobile. Secretly, Grace and Mrs. Gray were longing to talk with David Nesbit. He had arrived from the north only an hour before the wedding, thus giving them no chance for an interview. Both were imbued with but one thought and that thought centered on Tom Gray.

When the last hearty words of good will and farewell had been said and the train bearing the Southards westward had chugged out of the station, Grace was still obliged to possess her soul in patience while the remainder of the wedding party, minus the chief participants, repaired to the Nesbits' home for an informal supper in honor of the occasion. During its progress, however, she and David managed to exchange a few words regarding Tom. David had canvassed the region of the camp as thoroughly as was possible during the time he had been North, but thus far he had met with no clue to Tom's whereabouts.

It was after eleven o'clock when Hippy, Nora, Anne, David, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Nesbit, Grace and Elfreda Briggs, whom Grace had begged to remain with her, settled themselves in the library to hear David's account of his northern explorations.

"I am all broken up because I have no news for you," he began. "Good old Tom's disappearance is the most baffling problem I've ever dealt with. Blaisdell is completely discouraged. He and I have tramped through those woods for days from daylight until dark. So far as we know, no one saw Tom after he left the village. I found one little boy who insists that he saw Tom that day, but he saw him just before he entered the woods, so that doesn't help much. But I won't give up. I shall have to remain in New York for a day, then I am going back to stay until I find him."

"Mr. Blaisdell has written me that he must go to Cincinnati for a week or two," sighed Mrs. Gray. "A case he was working on, before he took up mine, needs his immediate attention."

"Yes; he told me," nodded David. "He is a splendid man, but he's handicapped in Tom's case by not being a thorough-going woodsman. His work has lain a great deal in large cities. If one of us had disappeared in such a wild region, instead of Tom, I'd say the very man to do the trailing would be Tom Gray himself. What I can't understand is how an expert woodsman like Tom could come to grief in the wilds."

"Tom was always venturesome and reckless of danger," replied Mrs. Gray with an ominous shake of her head. "I wish he had gone into some commercial enterprise rather than to have become interested in forestry. You know that the station master told him a storm was brewing, but he paid no attention to the warning."

"That storm was the cause of Tom's vanishing," broke in Grace almost dramatically. "I've always felt it. It made him lose his way, then——Who knows what happened then?"

"I wish I could go with you, David," declared Hippy earnestly. "I would, too, if I weren't tied up with a law suit which an irate traction company is waging against the city of Oakdale. Although I am not a woodsman, still I know the difference between a tree and a stump, and during my long and useful career I have killed numbers of slimy, slithery snakes."

"At least, that's something to be proud of," lauded Elfreda Briggs, favoring Hippy with an amused smile. The stout young man's remarks were quite in accord with her own distinct sense of humor. Hitherto she had listened without comment, absorbing all she heard and mentally appraising it in her shrewd fashion. She had chosen to break into the conversation at that moment because of an idea that was slowly taking shape in her fertile brain.

"I suppose," she continued nonchalantly, "that as David has just said, it takes a woodsman to trail a woodsman." Her round eyes fastened themselves on Grace. Knowing Elfreda as she did, Grace flashed the speaker a curiously startled glance. Something of signal import to her was about to fall from Elfreda's lips.