"I agree with you in that."

"I came away from the mining camps because of wagging tongues—because I was forever misjudged. Whatever I may have been, I have at least played fair with that girl; it hurts me now to be accused by her. I saw your love for her, and I never tried to rob her. Oh, don't look as if I couldn't have done differently if I had tried. I could have injured her very easily if I had been the sort she thinks me. But I helped you in every way I could. I made sacrifices, I did things she would never have done."

She stopped on the verge of tears. Boyd felt the justice of her words. He could not forget the unselfish devotion and loyalty she had shown throughout his long struggle. For the hundredth time there came to him the memory of her services in the matter of Hilliard's loan, and the thought caused him unspeakable distress.

"Why—did you do all this?" he asked.

"Don't you know?" Cherry gazed at him with a faint smile.

Then, for the first time, the whole truth burst upon him. The surprise of it almost deprived him of speech, and he stammered:

"No, I—I—" Then he fell silent.

"What little I did, I did because I love you," said the girl, in a tired voice. "You may as well know, for it makes no difference now."

"I—I am sorry," he said, gripped by a strong emotion that made him go hot and cold. "I have been a fool."

"No, you were merely wrapped up in your own affairs. You see, I had been living my own life, and was fairly contented till you came; then everything changed. For a long time I hoped you might grow to love me as I loved you, but I found it was no use. When I saw you so honest and unselfish in your devotion to that other girl, I thought it was my chance to do something unselfish in my turn. It was hard—but I did my best. I think I must love you in the same way you love her, Boyd, for there is nothing in all the world I would not do to make you happy. That's all there is to the poor little story, and it won't make any difference now, except that you and I can't go on as we have done; I shall never have the courage to come back after this. You will win Miss Wayland yet, and attain your heart's desire. I am only sorry that I have made it harder for you— that I cannot help you any further. But I cannot. There is but one thing more I can do—"

"I want no more sacrifice!" he cried, roughly. "I've been blind. I've taken too much from you already."

The girl stood for a moment with her eyes turned toward the river. Then she said:

"I must think. I—I want to go away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he returned, and stood watching her as she hurried away, half suspecting the tears that were trembling amid her lashes.

It was not until supper-time that Boyd saw "Fingerless" Fraser, and questioned him about his quest for an heiress.

"Nothing doing in the heiress business," replied the adventurer. "I couldn't stand the exposure."

"They were cold, eh?"

"Yep! They weathered me out."

"Did you really meet any of those people?"

"Sure! I met 'em all, but I didn't catch their names. I 'made' one before I'd gone a mile—tall, slim party, with cracked ice in her voice."

Boyd looked up quickly. "Did you introduce yourself?"

"As Chancy De Benville, that's all. How is that for a drawing-room monaker? She fell for the name all right, but there must have been something phony about the clothes. That's the trouble with this park harness; if I'd wore my 'soup and fish' and my two-gallon hat, I'd have passed for a gentleman sure. I'm strong for those evening togs. I see another one later; a little Maduro colored skirt with a fat nose."

"Miss Berry."

"I'm glad to meet her. I officed her out of a rowboat and told her I was Mr. Yonkers of New York. We was breezing along on the bit till Clyde broke it up. He called me Fraser, and it was cold in a minute. Fraser is a cheap name, anyhow; I'm sorry I took it."

"Do you mean to say it isn't your real name?" asked his companion, in genuine bewilderment.

"Naw! Switzer is what I was born with. Say it slow and it sounds like an air brake, don't it? I never won a bet as long as I packed it around, and Fraser hasn't got it beat by more than a lip."

"Well!" Boyd breathed deeply. "You are the limit."

"Speaking of clothes, I notice you are dressed up like a fruit salad. What is it? The yacht!"

"Yes."

"You'd better hurry; she sails at high tide."

"Sails!"

"Alton told me so, and said that he was going along."

"Thank Heaven for that, anyhow, but—I don't understand about the other."

Boyd voiced the question that was foremost in his mind.

"Did you know Cherry in the 'upper country'?"

"Nope."

"She said you did."

"She said that?"

"Yes. She thought you had told me who she was."

"Hell! She might have known I'd never crack. It's her own business, and— I've got troubles enough with this cannery on my hands."

"I wish you had told me," said Emerson.

"Why? There's no use of rehearsing the dog-eared dope. Nobody can live the past over again, and who wants to repeat the present? It's only the future that's worth while. I guess her future is just as good as anybody's."

"What she told me came as a shock."

"Fingerless" Fraser grunted. "I don't know why. For my part, I can't stand for an ingenue. If ever I get married, Cherry's the sort for me. I'm out of the kindergarten myself, and I'd hate to spend my life cutting paper figures for my wife. No, sir! If I ever seize a frill, I want her to know as much as me; then she won't tear away with the first dark-eyed diamond broker that stops in front of my place to crank up his whizz-buggy. You never heard of a wise woman breaking up her own home, did you? It's the pink-faced dolls from the seminary that fall for Bertie the Beautiful Cloak Model."

Fraser whittled himself a toothpick as he went on:

"A feller in my line of business don't gather much useful information, but he certainly gets Jerry to the female question in all its dips, angles, and spurs. Cherry Malotte is the squarest girl I ever saw, and while she may have been crowded at the turn, she'll finish true. It takes a thoroughbred to do that, and the guy that gets her will win his Derby. Now, those fillies on the yacht, for instance, warm up fine, but you can't tell how they'll run."

"We're not talking of marriage," said Boyd, as he rose. When he had gone out, Fraser ruminated aloud:

"Maybe not! I ain't very bright, and we may have been talking about the weather. However, if you're after that wild-flower dame with the cold- storage talk instead of Cherry Malotte, why, I hope you get her. There's no accounting for tastes. I certainly did my best to send you along this morning." Turning to the Jap steward, he remarked, sagely: "My boy, always remember one thing—if you can't boost, don't knock."

Wayne Wayland was by no means sure that Boyd would not make good his threat to visit the yacht that evening, and in any case he wished to be prepared. A scene before the other passengers of The Grande Dame was not to be thought of. Besides, if the young man were roughly handled, it would make him a martyr in Mildred's eyes. He talked over the matter with Marsh, who suggested that the sightseers should dine ashore and spend the evening with him at the plant. With only Mildred and her father left on the yacht, there would be no possibility of scandal, even if Emerson were mad enough to force an interview.

"And what is more," declared Mr. Wayland, "I shall give orders to clear on the high tide. That fellow is a menace, and the sooner Mildred is away from him the better. You shall go with us, my boy."

But when he went to Mildred, to explain the nature of his arrangements, he found her in a furious temper.

"Why did you announce my engagement to Mr. Marsh?" she demanded, angrily. "The whole ship is talking about it. By what right did you do that?"

"I did it for your own sake," said the old man. "This whelp, Emerson, has made a fool of you and of me long enough. There must be an end to it."

"But I don't love Willis Marsh!" she cried. "You forget I am of age."

"Nonsense! Willis is a fine fellow, he loves you, and he is the best business man for his years I have ever known. If it were not for this foolish boy-and-girl affair, you would return his love. He suits me, and— well, I have put my foot down, so there's an end of it."

"Do you intend to force me to marry him?"

Mr. Wayland recognized the danger-signal.

"Absurd! Take all the time you wish; you'll come around all right. That reprobate you were engaged to defied me and defended that woman."

He told of his stormy interview with Boyd, concluding: "It is fortunate we found him out, Mildred. I have guarded you all my life. I have lavished everything money could buy upon you. I have built up the greatest fortune in all the West for you. I have kept you pure and sweet and good—and to think that such a fellow should dare—" Mr. Wayland choked with anger. "The one thing I cannot stand in a man or a woman is immorality. I have lived clean myself, and my son shall be as clean as I."

"Did you say that Boyd threatened to come aboard this evening?" questioned the girl.

"Yes. But I swore that he should not."

"And still he repeated his threat?" Mildred's eyes were strangely bright. She was smiling as if to herself.

"He did, the braggart! He had better not try it."

"Then he'll come," said Mildred.

It was twilight when Willis Marsh was rowed out to the yacht. He found Mr. Wayland and Mildred seated in deck-chairs enjoying the golden sunset while the old man smoked. Marsh explained that he had excused himself from his guests to go whither his inclination led him, and drew his seat close to Mildred, rejoicing in the fact that no one could gainsay him this privilege. In reality, he had been drawn to The Grande Dame largely by a lurking fear of Emerson. He was not entirely sure of the girl, and would not feel secure until the shores of Kalvik had sunk from sight and his rival had been left behind. But in spite of his uneasiness, it was the happiest moment of his life. If he had failed to ruin his enemy in the precise way he had planned, he was fairly satisfied with what he had accomplished. He had shifted the battle to stronger shoulders, and he had gained the woman he wanted. Moreover, he had won the unfaltering loyalty of Wayne Wayland, the dominant figure of the West. Nothing could keep him now from the success his ambition demanded. It added to his satisfaction to note the group of lusty sailors at the rail. He almost wished that Emerson would try to come aboard, that he might witness his discomfiture. Meanwhile he did his best to be pleasant.

His complaisant enjoyment was interrupted at last by the approach of the second officer, who announced that a lady wished to see Mr. Wayland.

"A lady?" asked the old man, in surprise.

"Yes, sir. She came alongside in a small boat, just now, with some natives. I stopped her at the landing, but she says she must see you at once."

"Ah! That woman again." Mr. Wayland's jaws snapped. "Tell her to begone. I refuse to see her."

"Very well, sir!" The mate turned, but Mildred said, suddenly:

"Wait! Why don't you talk to her, father?"

"That creature? I have nothing to say to her."

"Quite right!" agreed Marsh, with a cautionary glance at the speaker. "She is up to some trick."

"She may have something really important to say to you," urged the girl.

"No."

Mildred leaned forward, and called to the ship's officer: "Show her up. I will see her."

"Mildred, you mustn't talk to that woman!" her father cried.

"It is very unwise," Marsh chimed in, apprehensively. "She isn't the sort of person—"

Miss Wayland chilled him with a look and waved the mate away, then sank back into her chair.

"I have talked with her already. I assure you she is not dangerous."

"Have your own way," Mr. Wayland grunted. "But it is bound to lead to something unpleasant. She has probably come with a message from—that fellow."

Willis Marsh squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He fixed his eyes upon the knot of men at the starboard rail; an expression of extreme alertness came over his bland features. His feet were drawn under him, and his fingers were clinched upon the arms of his chair. Then, with a sharp indrawing of his breath, he leaped up and darted down the deck.

Over the side had come Cherry Malotte, accompanied by an Indian girl in shawl and moccasins—a slim, shrinking creature who stood as if bewildered, twisting her hands and staring about with frightened eyes. Behind them, head and shoulders above the sailors, towered a giant copper- hued breed with a child in his arms.

They saw that Marsh was speaking to the newcomers, but could not distinguish his words. The Indian girl fell back as if terrified. She cried out something in her own tongue, shook her head violently, and pointed to her white companion. Marsh's face was livid; he shook a quivering hand in Cherry Malotte's face. It seemed as if he would strike her; but Constantine strode between them, scowling silently down into the smaller man's face, his own visage saturnine and menacing. Marsh retreated a step, chattering excitedly. Then Cherry's voice came clearly to the listeners:

"It is too late now, Mr. Marsh. You may as well face the music."

Followed by the stares of the sailors, she came up the deck toward the old man and his daughter, who had arisen, the Indian girl clinging to her sleeve, the tall breed striding noiselessly behind. Willis Marsh came with them, his white lips writhing, his face like putty. He made futile detaining grasps at Constantine, and in the silence that suddenly descended upon the ship, they heard him whispering.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Mr. Wayland.

"I heard you were about to sail, so I came out to see you before—"

Marsh broke in, hoarsely: "She's a bad woman! She has come here for blackmail!"

"Blackmail!" cried Wayne Wayland. "I thought as much!"

"That's her game. She wants money!"

Cherry shrugged her shoulders and showed her white teeth in a smile.

"Mr. Marsh anticipates slightly. You may judge if he is right."

Marsh started to speak, but Mildred Wayland, who had been watching him intently, was before him.

"Who sent you here, Miss?"

"No one sent me. If Mr. Marsh will stop his chatter, I can make myself understood."

"Don't listen to her—"

Cherry turned upon him swiftly. "You've got to face it, so you may as well keep still."

He fell silent.

"We heard that Mr. Marsh was going away with you, and I came out to ask him for enough money to support his child while he is gone."

"His child!" Wayne Wayland turned upon his daughter's fiance with a face of stern surprise. "Willis, tell her she is lying!"

"She's lying!" Marsh repeated, obediently; but they saw the truth in his face.

Cherry spoke directly to Miss Wayland now. "I have supported this little fellow and his mother for a year." She indicated the red-haired youngster in Constantine's arms. "That is all I care to do. When you people arrived, Mr. Marsh induced Chakawana to take the baby up-river to a fishing-camp and stay there until you had gone. But Constantine heard that he intended to marry you, and hearing also that he intended leaving to-night, Constantine brought his sister back in the hope that Mr. Marsh would do what is right. You see, he promised to marry Chakawana long before he met you."

Mildred could have done murder at the expression she saw in Cherry's face. This woman she had scorned had humbled her in earnest. With flashing eyes she turned upon her father.

"Since you were so prompt in announcing my engagement, perhaps you can deny it with equal promptness."

"Good God! What a scandal if this is true!" Wayne Wayland wiped his forehead.

"Oh, it's true," said Cherry.

In the silence that followed the child struggled out of Constantine's arms and stood beside his mother, the better to inspect these strangers. His little face was grimy, his clothes, cut in the native fashion, were poor and not very clean; yet he was more white than Aleut, and no one seeing him could doubt his parentage. The seamen had left their posts, and were watching with such absorption that they failed to see a skiff with a single oarsman swing past the stern of The Grande Dame and make fast to the landing. Still unobserved, the man mounted the companionway swiftly.

For once in his life Wayne Wayland was too confused for definite speech. Willis Marsh stood helpless, his plump face slack-jowled and beaded with sweat. He could not yet grasp the completeness of his downfall, and waited anxiously for some further sign from Mildred. It came at last in a look that scorched him, firing him to a last effort.

"Don't believe her!" he broke out. "She is lying to protect her own lover!" He pointed to Chakawana. "That girl is the child's mother, but its father is Boyd Emerson!"

"Boyd Emerson was never in Kalvik until last December," said Cherry. "The child is three years old."

"It seems I am being discussed," said a voice behind them. Emerson clove his way through the sailors, striding directly to Marsh. "What is the meaning of this?"

Mildred Wayland laid a fluttering hand upon her breast. "I knew he would come," she breathed.

Constantine broke his silence for the first time, addressing Mildred directly.

"This baby b'long Mr. Marsh. He say he goin' marry Chakawana, but he lie; he goin' marry you because you are rich girl." He turned to Marsh. "What for you lie, eh?" He leaned forward with a frightful scowl. "I tell you long time ago I kill you if you don' marry my sister."

"Now I understand!" exclaimed Boyd. "It was you who stabbed him that night in the cannery."

"Yes! Chakawana tell him what the pries' say 'bout woman what don' marry. My sister say she go to hell herself and don' care a damn, but it ain't right for little baby to go to hell too."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Wayland.

"The Father say if white man take Indian woman and don' marry her, she go to hell for thousan' year—mebbe two, three thousan' year. Anyhow, she don' never see Jesus' House. That's bad thing!" The breed shook his head seriously. "Chakawana she's good girl, and she go to church; I give money to the pries' too, plenty money every time, but he says that's no good— she's got to be marry or she'll burn for always with little baby. By God! that's make her scare', because little baby ain't do nothing to burn that way. Mr. Marsh he say it's all damn lie, and he don't care if little baby do go to hell. You hear that? He don't care for little baby."

Constantine's eyes were full of tears as he strove laboriously to voice his religious teachings. He went on with growing agitation:

"Chakawana she's mighty scare' of that bad place. and she ask Mr. Marsh again to marry her, but he beat her. That's when I try to kill him. Mebbe Mr. Emerson ain't come so quick, Mr. Marsh go to hell himself."

Wayne Wayland turned upon Marsh.

"Why don't you say something?"

"I told you the brat isn't mine!" he cried. "If it isn't Emerson's, it's Cherry Malotte's. They want money, but I won't be bled."

"You marry my sister?" asked Constantine.

"No!" snarled Willis Marsh. "You can all go to hell and take the child with you—"

Without a single warning cry, the breed lunged swiftly; the others saw something gleam in his hand. Emerson jumped for him, and the three men went to the deck in a writhing tangle, sending the furniture spinning before them. Mildred screamed, the sailors rushed forward, pushing her aside and blotting out her view. The sudden violence of the assault had frightened her nearly out of her senses. She fled to her father, striving to hide her face against his breast, but something drew her eyes back to the spot where the men were clinched. She heard Boyd Emerson cry to the sailors:

"Get out of the way! I've got him!" Then saw him locked in the Indian's arms. They had gained their feet now, and spun backward, bringing up against the yacht's cabin with a crash of shivering glass. A knife, wrenched from the breed's grasp, went whirling over the side into the sea. Cherry Malotte ran forward, and at her voice the savage ceased his struggles.

Wayne Wayland loosed his daughter's hold and thrust his way in among the sailors, kneeling beside the man he had chosen for his son-in-law. Emerson joined him, then rose quickly, crying:

"Is there a doctor among your party?"

"Doctor Berry! Send for Berry! He's gone ashore!" exclaimed Mr. Wayland.

"Quick! Somebody fetch Doctor Berry!" Boyd directed.

As the sailors drew apart, Mildred Wayland saw a sight that made her grow deathly faint and close her eyes. Turning, she fled blindly into the cabin. A few moments later Emerson found her stretched unconscious at the head of the main stairs, with a hysterical French maid sobbing over her.



CHAPTER XXVII

AND A DREAM COMES TRUE



For nearly an hour Boyd Emerson sat alone on the deck of The Grande Dame, a prey to conflicting emotions, the while he waited for Mildred to appear. There was no one to dispute his presence now, for the tourists who had followed Doctor Berry from the shore in hushed excitement avoided him, and the sailors made no effort to carry out their earlier instructions; hence he was allowed opportunity to adjust himself to the sudden change. It was not so much the unexpected downfall of Willis Marsh, and the new light thus thrown upon his own enterprise that upset him, as a puzzling alteration in his own purposes and inclinations. He had come out to the yacht defiantly, to make good his threat, and to force an understanding with Mildred Wayland, but now that he was here and his way made easy he began to question his own desires. Now that he thought about it, that note, instead of filling him with dismay, had rather left him relieved. It was as if he had been freed of a burden, and this caused him a vague uneasiness. Was it because he was tired by the struggle for this girl, for whom he had labored so faithfully? After three years of unflagging devotion, was he truly relieved to have her dismiss him? Or was it that here, in this primal country, stripped of all conventions, he saw her and himself in a new light? He did not know.

The late twilight was fading when Mildred came from her state-room. She found Boyd pacing the deck, a cigar between his teeth.

"Where are those people?" she inquired.

"They went ashore. Marsh doesn't care to press a charge against the Indian."

"I hear he is not badly hurt, after all."

"That is true. But it was a close shave."

Mildred shuddered. "It was horrible!"

"I never dreamed that Constantine would do such a thing, but he is more Russian than Aleut, and both he and his sister are completely under the spell of the priest. They are intensely religious, and their idea of damnation is very vivid."

"Have you seen father?"

"We had a short talk."

"Did you make up?"

"No! But I think he is beginning to understand things better—at least, as far as Marsh is concerned. The rest is only a matter of time."

"What a frightful situation! Why did you ever let father announce my engagement to that man?"

Emerson gazed at her in astonishment. "I? Pardon me—how could I help it?"

"You might have avoided quarrelling with him. I think you are very inconsiderate of me."

Boyd regarded the coal of his cigar with a slight gleam of amusement in his eyes as she ran on:

"Even that woman took occasion to humiliate me in the worst possible way."

"It strikes me that she did you a very great service. I have no doubt it was quite as distasteful to her as to you."

"Absurd! It was her chance for revenge, and she rejoiced in making me ridiculous."

"Then it is the first ignoble thing I ever knew her to do," said Boyd, slowly. "She has helped me in a hundred ways. Without her assistance, I could never have won through. That cannery site would still be grown up to moss and trees, and I would still be a disheartened dreamer."

"It's very nice of you, of course, to appreciate what she has done. But she can't help you any more. You surely don't intend to keep up your acquaintance with her now." He made no reply, and, taking his silence for agreement, she went on: "The trip home will be terribly dull for me, I'm afraid. I think—yes, I shall have father ask you to go back with us."

"But I am right in the midst of the run. I can't leave the business."

"Oh, business! Do you care more for business than for me? I don't think you realize how terribly hard for me all this has been—I'm still frightened. I shall die of nervousness without some one to talk to."

"It's quite impossible! I—don't want to go back now."

"Indeed? And no doubt it was impossible for you to come out here last night for the same reason."

"It was. The fish struck in, and I could not leave."

"It was that woman who kept you!" cried Mildred. "It is because of her that you refuse to leave this country!"

"Please don't," he said, quietly. "I have never thought of her in that way—"

"Then come away from this wretched place. I detest the whole country—the fisheries, the people, everything. This isn't your proper sphere. Why come away, now, at once, and begin something new, something worth while?"

"Do you realize the hopes, the heartaches, the vital effort I have put into this enterprise?" he questioned.

But she only said:

"I don't like it. It isn't a nice business. Let father take the plant over. If you need money, I have plenty—"

"Wait!" he interrupted, sharply. "Sit down, I want to talk to you." He drew the wrap closer about her shoulders and led her to a deck-chair. The change in him was becoming more apparent. He knew now that he had never felt the same since his first meeting with Mildred upon the arrival of The Grande Dame. Even then she had repelled him by her lack of sympathy. She had shown no understanding of his efforts, and now she revealed as complete a failure to grasp his code of honor. It never occurred to her that any loyalty of man to man could offset her simple will. She did not see that his desertion of George would be nothing short of treachery.

It seemed to him all at once that they had little in common. She was wrapped completely in the web of her own desires; she would make her prejudices a law for him. Above all, she could not respond to the exultation of his success. She had no conception of the pride of accomplishment that is the wine of every true man's life. He had waged a bitter fight that had sapped his very soul, he had made and won the struggle that a man makes once in a lifetime, and now, just when he had proved himself strong and fair in the sight of his fellows, she asked him to forego it all. Engrossed in her own egoism, she required of him a greater sacrifice than any he had made. Now that he had shown his strength, she wanted to load him down with golden fetters—to make him a dependent. Was it because she feared another girl? She had tried to help him, he knew—in her way—and the thought of it touched him. That was like the Mildred he had always known—to act fearlessly, heedless of what her father might do or say. Somehow he had never felt more convinced of the sincerity of her love, but he found himself thinking of it as of something of the past. After all, what she had done had been little, considering her power. She had given carelessly, out of her abundance, while Cherry—He saw it all now, and a sudden sense of loyalty and devotion to the girl who had really shared his struggles swept over him in a warm tide. It was most unlike his distant worship of Mildred. She had been his dream, but the other was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh.

For a long time the two sat talking while these thoughts took gradual form in the young man's mind, and although the deck was deserted, Miss Wayland had no need now to curb her once headstrong wooer.

He could not put into words the change that was working in him; but she saw it, and, grasping its meaning at last, she began to battle like a mother for her child. His awakening had been slow, and hers was even slower; but once she found her power over him waning, her sense of loss grew and grew as he failed to answer to her half-spoken appeal.

Womanlike, she capitulated at last. What matter if he stayed here where his hopes were centred? This life in the North had claimed him, and she would wait until he came for her. But still he did not respond, and it was not long until she had persuaded herself that his battle with the wilderness had put red blood into his veins, and his conduct had been no worse than that of other men. Finally she tried to voice these thoughts, but she only led him to a stiff denial of the charges she wished to forgive. As she saw him slipping further away from her, she summoned all her arts to rekindle the flame which had burned so steadily; and when these failed, she surrendered every prejudice. It was his love she wanted. All else was secondary. At last she knew herself. She could have cried at the sudden realization that he had not kissed her since their parting in Chicago; and when she saw he had no will to do so, the memory of his last embrace arose to torture her. She was almost glad when a launch bringing her father came from the shore, and the old man joined them.

The two men bore themselves with unbending formality, unable as yet to forget their mutual wrongs. The interruption gave Boyd the opportunity he had not been brave enough to make, and he bade them both good-bye, for the tide was at its flood, and the hour of their departure was at hand.

There was a meaningless exchange of words, and a handshake in the glare from the cabin lights that showed Mildred's pallid lips and frightened eyes. Then Emerson went over the side, and the darkness swallowed him up.

The girl clutched at her father's arm, standing as if frozen while the creak of rowlocks grew fainter and fainter and died away. Then she turned.

"You see—he came!" she said.

The old man saw the agony that blanched her cheeks, and answered, gently:

"Yes, daughter!" He struggled with himself, "And if you wish it, he may come again."

"But he won't come again. That is what makes it so hard; he will never come back."

She turned away, but not quickly enough to keep him from seeing that her eyes were wet. Wayne Wayland beheld what he would have given half his mighty fortune to prevent. He cried out angrily, but she anticipated his thought.

"No, no, you must never injure him again, for he was right and we were wrong. You see I—couldn't understand."

He left her staring into the night, and walked heavily below.

Emerson felt a great sense of relief and deliverance as he leaned against his oars. His heart sang to the murmur of the waters overside; for the first time in many months he felt young and free. How blind he had been and how narrow had been his escape from a life that could lead to but one result! The girl was sweet and good and wonderful in many ways, but—three years had altered him more than he had realized. He had begun to understand himself that very afternoon, when Cherry had told him her own unhappy secret. The shock of her disclosure had roused him from his dream, and once he began to see himself as he really was the rest had come quickly. He had been doubtful even when he went out to the yacht, but what happened there had destroyed the last trace of uncertainty. He knew that for him there was but one woman in all the world. It was no easy battle he had fought with himself. He had been reared to respect the conventions, and he knew that Cherry's life had not been all he could wish. But he fronted the issue squarely, and tried to throttle his inbred prejudice. Although he had felt the truth of Fraser's arguments and of Cherry's own words, he had still refused to yield until his love for the girl swept over him in all its power; then he made his choice.

The one thing he found most difficult to accept was her conduct with Hilliard. Those other charges against the girl were vague and shadowy, but this was concrete, and he was familiar with every miserable detail of it. It took all his courage to face it, but he swore savagely that if the conditions had been reversed, Cherry would not have faltered for an instant. Moreover, what she had done had been done for love of him; it was worse than vile to hesitate. Her past was her own, and all he could rightfully claim was her future. He shut his teeth and laid his course resolutely for her landing, striving to leave behind this one hideous memory, centring his mind upon the girl herself and shutting out her past. It was the bitterest fight he had ever waged; but when he reached the shore and tied his skiff, he was exalted by the knowledge that he had triumphed, that this painful episode was locked away with all the others.

Now that he had conquered, he was filled with a consuming eagerness. As he stole up through the shadows he heard her playing, and when he drew nearer he recognized the notes of that song that had banished his own black desolation on the night of their first meeting. He paused outside the open window and saw by the shaded lamplight that she was playing from memory, her fingers wandering over the keyboard without conscious effort. Then she took up the words, with all the throbbing tenderness that lives in a deep, contralto voice:

"Last night I was dreaming of thee, love—was dreaming; I dreamed thou didst promise—"

Cherry paused as if entranced, for she thought she heard another voice join with hers; then she bowed her head and sobbed in utter wretchedness, knowing it for nothing more than her own fancy. Too many times, as in other twilights past, she had heard that mellow voice blend with hers, only to find that her ears had played her false and she was alone with a memory that would never die.

Of all the days of her life this was the saddest, this hour the loneliest, and the tears she had withheld so bravely as long as there was work to do came now in unbidden profusion.

To face those people on the yacht had been an act of pure devotion to Boyd, for her every instinct had rebelled against it; yet she had known that some desperate stroke in his defence must be delivered instantly. Otherwise the ruin of all his hopes would follow. She had hit upon the device of using Constantine and Chakawana largely by chance, for not until the previous day had she learned the truth. She had not dared to hope for such unqualified success, nor had she foreseen the tragic outcome. She had simply carried her plan through to its natural conclusion. Now that her work was done, she gave way completely and wept like a little girl. He was out there now with his love. They would never waste a thought upon that other girl who had made their happiness possible. The thought was almost more than she could bear. Never again could she have Boyd to herself, never enjoy his careless friendship as of old; even that was over, now that he knew the truth.

The first and only kiss he had ever given her burned fresh upon her lips. She recalled that evening they had spent alone in this very room, when he had seemed to waver and her hopes had risen at the dawning of a new light in his eyes. At the memory she cried aloud, as if her heart would break:

"Boyd! Boyd!"

He entered noiselessly and took her in his arms.

"Yes, dear!" he murmured. But she rose with a startled exclamation, and wrenched herself from his embrace. The piano gave forth a discordant crash. Shrinking back as from an apparition, she stared into his flushed and smiling face; then breathed:

"You! Why are you—here!"

"Because I love you!"

She closed her eyes and swayed as if under the spell of wonderful music; he saw the throbbing pulse at her throat. Then she flung out her hands, crying, piteously:

"Go away, please, before I find it is only another dream."

She raised her lids to find him still standing there then felt him with fluttering fingers.

"Our dreams have come true," he said, gently, and strove to imprison her hand.

"No, no!" Her voice broke wildly. "You don't mean it. You—you haven't come to stay."

"I have come to stay if you will let me, dear."

She broke from his grasp end moved quickly away.

"Why are you here? I left you out there with—her. I made your way clear. Why have you come back? What more can I do? Dear God! What more can I do?" She was panting as if desperately frightened.

"There is but one thing more you can do to make me happy. You can be my wife."

"But I don't understand!" She shook her head hopelessly. "You are jesting with me. You love Miss Wayland."

"No. Miss Wayland leaves to-night, and I shall never see her again."

"Then you won't marry her?"

"No."

A dull color rose to Cherry Malotte's cheeks; she swallowed as if her throat were very dry, and said, slowly:

"Then she refused you in spite of everything, and you have come to me because of what I told you this afternoon. You are doing this out of pity —or is it because you are angry with her? No, no, Boyd! I won't have it. I don't want your pity—I don't want what she cast off."

"It has taken me a long time to find myself, Cherry, for I have been blinded by a vision," he answered. "I have been dreaming, and I never saw clearly till to-day. I came away of my own free will; and I came straight to you because it is you I love and shall always love."

The girl suddenly began to beat her hands together.

"You—forget what I—have been!" she cried, in a voice that tore her lover's heartstrings. "You can't want to—marry me?"

"To-night," he said, simply, and held out his arms to her. "I love you and I want you. That is all I know or care about."

He found her upon his breast, sobbing and shaking as if she had sought shelter there from some great peril. He buried his face in the soft masses of her hair, whispering fondly to her till her emotion spent itself. She turned her face shyly up at length and pressed her lips to his. Then, holding herself away from him, she said, with a half-doubtful yet radiant look:

"It is not too late yet. I will give you one final chance to save yourself."

He shook his head.

"Then I have done my duty!" She snuggled closer to him. "And you have no regrets?"

"Only one. I am sorry that I can't give you more than my name. I may have to go out into the world and begin all over if Mr. Wayland carries out his threat. I may be the poorest of the poor."

"That will be my opportunity to show how well I love you. You can be no poorer than I in this world's goods."

"You at least have your copper-mine."

"I have no mine," said the girl. "Not even the smallest interest in one."

"But—I don't understand."

She dropped her eyes. "Mr. Hilliard is a hard man to deal with. I had to give him all my share in the claims."

"I suppose you mean you sold out to him."

"No! When I found you could not raise the money, I gave him my share in the mine. With that as a consideration, he made you the loan. You are not angry, are you?"

"Angry!" Emerson's tone conveyed a supreme gladness. "You don't know—how happy you have made me."

"Hark!" She laid a finger upon his lips. Through the breathless night there came the faint rumble of a ship's chains.

"The Grande Dame!" he cried. "She sails at the flood tide."

They stood together in the open doorway of the little house and watched the yacht's lights as they described a great curve through the darkness, then slowly faded into nothingness down the bay. Cherry drew herself closer to Boyd.

"What a wonderful Providence guides us, after all," she said. "That girl had everything in the world, and I was poor—so poor—until this hour. God grant she may some day be as rich as I!"

Out on The Grande Dame the girl who had everything in the world maintained a lonely vigil at the rail, straining with tragic eyes until the sombre shadows that marked the shores of the land she feared had shrunk to a faint, low-lying streak on the horizon. Then she turned and went below, numbed by the knowledge that she was very poor and very wretched, and had never understood.

THE END