Sylvia, bubbling over with sociability after her evening at the Doanes', was surprised, on reaching the Homestead, to find a lamp set in the window and the living-room empty. Ten o'clock was not late and yet both occupants of the house had gone upstairs.

This was unusual.

She wondered at it.

Certainly Marcia could not be asleep at so early an hour; nor Heath, either. In fact, beneath the latter's door she could see a streak of light, and could hear him moving about inside.

Marcia's room, on the other hand, was still. Once, as she paused listening, wondering whether she dared knock and go in for a bedtime chat, she thought she detected a stifled sound and thus encouraged whispered the woman's name. No response came, however, and deciding she must have been mistaken she tiptoed away.

Having, therefore, no inkling of a change in the delightful relations that had for the past week prevailed, the atmosphere that greeted her when she came down the next morning was a shock.

Stanley Heath stood at the telephone talking to Elisha Winslow and on the porch outside were grouped his suit-case, overcoat and traveling rug. He himself was civil—nay, courteous—but was plainly ill at ease and had little except the most commonplace remarks to offer in way of conversation.

Marcia had not slept, as her pallor and the violet shadows beneath her eyes attested.

Sylvia could see that her duties as hostess of the breakfast table taxed her self-control almost to the breaking point and that only her pride and strong will-power prevented her from going to pieces.

Although the girl did not understand, she sensed Marcia's need of her and rushed valiantly into the breach—filling every awkward pause with her customary sparkling chatter.

Her impulse was to cry out:

"What under the sun is the matter with you two?"

She might have done so had not a dynamic quality vibrant in the air warned her not to meddle.

When at length the meal was cut short by the arrival of Elisha Winslow, all three of the group rose with unconcealed relief.

Even Elisha's presence, hateful as it would ordinarily have been, came now as a welcome interruption.

"Wal, Mr. Heath, I see you're expectin' me," grinned the sheriff, pointing toward the luggage beside the door.

"I am, Mr. Winslow."

"I've got my boat. Are you ready to come right along?"

"Quite ready."

Heath went to Sylvia and took her hand.

"Thank you very much," murmured he formally, "for all you've done for me. I appreciate it more than I can say. And you, too, Mrs. Howe. Your kindness has placed me deeply in your debt."

"I wish you luck, Mr. Heath," called Sylvia.

"Thanks."

"And I, too," Marcia rejoined in a voice scarcely audible.

To this the man offered no reply.

Perhaps he did not hear the words.

They followed him to the door.

It was then that Marcia sprang forward and caught Elisha's arm.

"Where are you taking him, Elisha?" she demanded, a catch in her voice. "Where are you taking him? Remember, Mr. Heath has been ill. You must not risk his getting cold or suffering any discomfort. Promise me you will not."

"You need have no worries on that score, Marcia," replied the sheriff kindly, noticing the distress in her face. "You don't, naturally, want all you've done for Mr. Heath thrown away. No more do I. I'll look out for him."

"Where is he going?"

"To my house for the present," Elisha answered. "You see, the town ain't ever needed to make provision for a criminal. I can't lock him up in the church 'cause he could get out had he the mind; an' out of the school-house, too. Besides, them buildin's are kinder chilly. So after weighin' the matter, I decided to take him 'long home with me. I've a comfortable spare room an' I figger to put him in it 'til I've questioned him an' verified his story.

"Meantime, nobody in town will be the wiser. I ain't even tellin' May Ellen why Mr. Heath's at the house. If I choose to harbor comp'ny, that's my business. Not a soul 'cept Eleazer's in on this affair an' he's keepin' mum. When him an' me decide we've got the truth, we'll act—not before."

"That relieves my mind very much. Mr. Heath is—you see he—"

"He's a friend of yours—I ain't forgettin' that. I shall treat him 'cordin'ly, Marcia."

"Thank you, Elisha—thank you a hundred times."

There was nothing more to be said.

Heath bowed once again and the two men walked down to the float where they clambered with the luggage into Elisha's dory and put out into the channel.

Sylvia loitered to wave her hand and watch them row away, but Marcia, as if unable to bear the sight, waited for no further farewell.

Even after the girl had followed her indoors and during the interval they washed the breakfast dishes together, Sylvia did not venture to ask any explanations. If Marcia preferred to exclude her from her confidence, she resolved not to intrude.

Instead, she began to talk of her evening with the Doanes and although well aware Marcia scarcely listened, her gossip bridged the gulf of silence and gave the elder woman opportunity to recover her poise.

By noon Marcia was, to outward appearances, entirely herself. She had not been able, to be sure, to banish her pallor or the traces of sleeplessness; but she had her emotions sufficiently under control to talk pleasantly, if not gaily so that only an understanding, lynx-eyed observer like Sylvia would have suspected she was still keyed to too high a pitch to put heart in what she mechanically said and did.

That day and the next passed in much the same strained fashion.

That the woman was grateful for her niece's forbearance was evident in a score of trivial ways. That she also sensed Sylvia's solicitude and appreciated her loyalty and impulsive outbursts of affection was also obvious.

It was not until the third morning, however, that the barriers between the two collapsed.

Marcia had gone into the living-room to write a letter—a duty she especially detested and one which it was her habit to shunt into the future whenever possible.

Today, alas, there was no escape. A business communication had come that must be answered.

She sat down before the infrequently used desk and started to take up her pen when Sylvia heard her utter a cry.

"What's the matter, dear?" called the girl, hurrying into the other room.

No answer came.

Marcia was sitting fingering a slip of green paper she had taken from a long envelope.

With wild, despairing eyes she regarded it.

Then, as Sylvia came nearer, she bowed her head upon the desk and began to sob as if her heart would break.

"Marcia, dear—Marcia—what is it?" cried Sylvia, rushing to her and clasping the shaking figure in her arms. "Tell me what it is, dear."

"Oh, how could he!" moaned the woman. "How could he be so cruel!"

"What has happened. Marcia?"

"Stanley—he has left a check—money—thrown it in my face! And I did it so gladly—because I loved him. He knew that. Yet he could leave this—pay me—as if I were a common servant. I had rather he struck me—a hundred times rather."

The girl took the check.

It was filled out in Stanley Heath's clear, strong hand and was for the sum of a hundred dollars.

"How detestable of him!" she exclaimed. "Tell me, Marcia—what happened between you and Mr. Heath? You quarreled—of course I know that. But why—why? I have not wanted to ask, but now—"

"I'll tell you everything, Sylvia. I'd rather you knew. I thought at first I could keep it to myself, but I cannot. I need you to help me, dear."

"If I only could!" murmured Sylvia, drawing her closer.

As if quieted by the warmth of her embrace, Marcia wiped her eyes and began to speak, tremulously.

She unfolded the story of her blind faith in Stanley Heath; her love for him—a love she could neither resist nor control—a love she had known from the first to be hopeless. She confessed how she had fought against his magnetic power; how she had struggled to conceal her feelings; how he himself had resisted a similar attraction in her; how at last he had discovered her secret and forced her to betray it.

Slowly, reluctantly she went on to tell of the final scene between them—his insistence on coming back to her.

"Of course I realized we could not go on," she explained bravely. "That we loved one another was calamity enough. All that remained was for him to go away and forget me—return to his wife, his home, and the interests and obligations of his former life. Soon, if he honestly tries, this infatuation will pass and everything will be as before. Men forget more easily than women. Absence, too, will help."

"And you, Marcia?"

"I am free. There is no law forbidding me to remember. I can go on caring, so long as he does not know. It will do no harm if here, far away, where he will never suspect it, I continue to love him."

"Oh, my dear, my dear!"

"I cannot give up my love. It is all I have now. Oh, I do not mean to mourn over it, pity myself, make life unhappy. Instead, I shall be glad, thankful. You will see. This experience will make every day of living richer. You need have no fears for me, Sylvia. You warned me, you know," concluded she with a pathetic little smile.

"I was a brute! I ought to have shielded you more," the girl cried. "I could have, had I realized. Well, I can yet do something, thank heaven. Give me that check."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Return it, of course—return it before Stanley Heath leaves town. Isn't that what you want done? Surely you do not wish to keep it."

"No! No!"

"I'll take it over to Elisha Winslow's now, this minute."

"I wonder—yes, probably that will be best. You won't, I suppose, be allowed to see Stanley," speculated she timidly.

"I don't suppose so."

"If you should—"

"Well?"

"Don't say anything harsh, Sylvia. Please do not blame him, or—"

"I'll wring his neck!" was the emphatic retort.

"Oh, please—please dear—for my sake! I can't let you go if you go in that spirit," pleaded Marcia in alarm.

"There, there—you need not worry for fear I shall maltreat your Romeo, richly as he deserves it," was the response. "I could kill him—but I won't—because of you. Nevertheless, I warn you that if I get the chance I shall tell him what I think of him. No power on earth can keep me from doing that. He is terribly to blame and ought to realize it. No married man has any business playing round with another woman. He may get by with it in New York, but on Cape Cod or in Alton City," she drew herself up, "it just isn't done and the sooner Stanley Heath understands that, the better. That's that! Now I'll get my hat and go."

"I am half afraid to let you, Sylvia."

"You don't trust me? Don't you believe I love you?"

"I am afraid you love me too much, dear."

"I do love you, Marcia. I never dreamed I could care so intensely for anyone I have known for so short a time. What you did for my mother alone would make me love you. But aside from gratitude there are other reasons. I love you for your own splendid self, dear. Please do not fear to trust me. I promise you I will neither be unjust nor bitter. The fact that you care for Stanley Heath shall protect him and make me merciful."

"Take the check then and go. I wish I were to see him."

"Well, you're not! Rowing across that channel and hurrying to his side after the way he's treated you! Not a bit of it! I'd tie you to your own bedpost first," snapped Sylvia. "Let him do the explaining and apologizing. Let him cross the channel and grovel at your feet. That's what he ought to do!"

"You won't tell him that."

"I don't know what I shall tell him."

"Please, Sylvia! You promised, remember."

"Don't fret. Some of the mad will be taken out of me before I see Mr. Heath. The tide is running strong and it will be a pull to get the boat across to the mainland. Kiss me and wish me luck, Marcia. You do believe I will try to be wise, don't you?"

"Yes, dear. Yes!"

"That's right. You really can trust me, you know. I'm not so bad as I sound."

Tucking the check into the wee pocket of her sweater, Sylvia caught up her pert beret and perched it upon her curls.

"So long!" she called, looking back over her shoulder as she opened the door. "So long, Marcia! I'll be back as soon as ever I can."

The haste with which she disappeared, suddenly precipitated her into the arms of a young man who stood upon the steps preparing to knock.

"Hortie Fuller," cried Sylvia breathlessly. "Hortie! Where on earth did you come from?"

Her arms closed about his neck and he had kissed her twice before she swiftly withdrew, rearranging her curls and saying coldly:

"I cannot imagine what brought you here, Horatio."