The days immediately following were like an armed truce.

Marcia watched Sylvia.

Sylvia watched Marcia.

Heath watched them both.

When, however, no further reference to the events of the past week was made, the tension slowly began to lessen, and life at the Howe Homestead took on again its customary aspect.

One agency in this return to normal was the physical improvement of the invalid, who as a result of rest, fresh air, sleep, and good nursing now became well enough to come down stairs and join the family group.

An additional, and by no means unimportant contributory factor, was the sudden onrush of fine weather.

Never had there been such a spring—at least never within the memory of the owner of the house on the Point. The soft breath of the south wind; the radiance of the sunshine; the gentle lapping of the waves on the spangled shore; the stillness; the vivid beauty of the ocean's changing colors—all these blended to make a world that caught the breath and subordinated every mood save one of exuberant joy.

Against a heaven gentian blue, snowy gulls wheeled and dipped, and far beyond them, miniature white sails cut the penciled indigo of the horizon.

The old grey house with its fan-light and beaded doorway stood out in colonial simplicity from the background of sea and sky like a dim, silvered picture, every angle of it soft in relief against the splendors that flanked it.

Marcia sang at her work—sang not so much because there was peace in her heart as because the gladness about her forced her to forget her pain.

Sylvia sang, too, or rather whistled in a gay, boyish fashion and in company with Prince Hal raced like a young colt up the beach.

Only a day or two more passed before it was possible to get Stanley Heath, warmly wrapped in rugs, out on the sheltered veranda where, like the others, he reveled in the sunshine.

His cheeks bronzed, his eyes became clear and bright, laughter curled his lips. If just around the corner the spectre of trouble loitered, its presence was not, apparently, able to put to flight his lightheartedness. Over and over again he declared that every hour spent in this lotus-eaters' country was worth a miser's fortune.

Sometimes when he lay motionless in the steamer-chair looking seaward beneath the rim of his soft felt hat, or following the circling gulls with preoccupied gaze Marcia, peeping at him from the window wondered of what he was thinking.

That the fancies which intrigued him were pleasant and that he enjoyed his own company there could be no question.

No attitude he might have assumed could have been better calculated to dispel awkwardness and force into the background the seriousness of the two women, whose interests were so inextricably entangled with his own, than the merry, bantering one he adopted when with them.

Even Marcia, who at first had avoided all tÊte-À-tÊtes, quivering with dread whenever she found herself alone with him, gradually, beneath the spell of his new self, gained sufficient confidence to perch hatless on the piazza rail beside him in an unoccupied moment and spar with him, verbally.

For he was a brilliant talker—one who gave unexpected, original twists to the conversation—twists that taxed one's power of repartee. The challenge to keep pace with his wit was to her like scouring a long disused rapier and seeing it clash against the deft blade of a master fencer.

Here indeed was a hitherto undreamed-of Stanley Heath, a man whose dangerous charms had multiplied a hundredfold and who, if he had captivated her before now riveted her fetters with every word he spoke, every glance he gave her.

She struggled to escape from the snare closing in on her, then finding combat useless, ceased to struggle and let herself drift with the tide.

After all, why not enjoy the present?

Soon, all too soon, its glamorous delights would be gone and she would be back once more in the uneventful past which had satisfied her and kept her happy until Heath had crossed her path, bringing with him the bewildering adventures that had destroyed her tranquillity.

Would she ever find that former peace, she frequently asked herself. Would her world ever be the same after this magician who had touched it with the spell of his enchantment had left it? For he would leave it. A time must come, and soon now—when like a scene from a fairy play the mystic lights would fade, the haunting music cease, the glitter of the whole dreamlike pageant give place to reality.

It was too beautiful, too ephemeral an idyll to last.

In loving this stranger of whom she knew so little, she had set her heart upon a phantom that she knew must vanish. The future, grim with foreboding, was constantly drawing nearer.

In her path stood a presence that said: Thou shalt not!

There were, alas, but two ways of life—the way of right and the way of wrong, and between them lay no neutral zone. This she acknowledged with her mind. But her rebel heart would play her false, flouting her puritan codes and defying the creeds that conscience dictated.

Meantime while she thus wrestled with the angel of her best self, Sylvia accepted the situation with characteristic lightness. Her life in this vast world and wide had been of short duration, but during its brief span she had learned a surprising amount about the earth and the human beings that peopled it.

She knew more already about men than did Marcia—much more. Long ago they had ceased to be gods to her. She was accustomed to them and their ways, and was never at a loss to give back to each as good as he sent—frequently better.

Her sophistication in the present instance greatly relieved the strain.

She jested fearlessly with Heath, speaking a language with which he was familiar and one that amused him no end.

Often he would sit watching her furtively, his glance moving from the gold of her hair to the blue of her eyes, the fine poise of her fair white throat, the slender lines of her girlish figure. Often, too, in such moments he would think of the possibilities that lay in the prodigal beauty she so heedlessly ignored.

That he took pleasure in being with her and treating her with half playful, half affectionate admiration was incontestable. Yet notwithstanding this, his fondness was nicely restrained and never slipped into familiarity or license.

It was the sort of delicately poised relation in which the girl was thoroughly at home and with which she knew well how to cope.

Today Heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down to the water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usual they sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory.

To Marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing—Sylvia pleadingly, Heath with stern resistance.

The woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them.

Not that she was spying. She would have scorned to do that.

She had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caught her eye. It seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune moment for observation, for just at that instant Sylvia placed her hand entreatingly on Heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caught and held it.

The fact that Sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forced her to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusual happening.

Marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart.

When, later in the day, the pair reËntered the house Heath, with a few pleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps to smoke, while Sylvia hurried to her room.

Marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent over the table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page of a closely written letter.

It was a pity the elder woman could not have read that letter, for had she been able to, it would not only have astonished but also have enlightened her and perhaps quieted the beating of her troubled heart.

It was a letter that astonished Sylvia herself. Nevertheless, much as it surprised her, her amazement in no way approached that of young Horatio Fuller when he read it.

So completely did it scatter to the winds of heaven every other thought his youthful head contained that he posted two important business documents—one without a stamp, and the other without an address. After that he decided he was unfit to cope with commercial duties and pleading a headache hastened home to his mother.

Now Horatio's mother, far from possessing the appearance of a tower of strength to which one might flee in time of trouble, was a woman of colorless, vaguely defined personality indicative of little guile and still less determination. She listened well and gave the impression she could listen, with her hands passively folded in her lap, forever if necessary. She never interrupted; never offered comment or advice; never promised anything; and yet when she said, as she invariably did, "I'll talk with your father, dear," there was always infinite comfort in the observation.

That was what she said today to Horatio Junior.

Accordingly that evening after Horatio Senior had dined, and dined well; after he had smoked a good cigar and with no small measure of pride in his own skill put into place all the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle that had defied his prowess the night before—his wife artfully slipping them beneath his nose where he could not fail to find them—then and not until then did Mrs. Horatio take out the pink afghan she had been making and while she knit two and purled two, she gently imparted to Alton City's leading citizen the intelligence that his son, Horatio Junior, wished to go East; that he was in love; that, in short, he wished to marry.

Up into the air like a whizzing rocket soared Horatio Senior!

He raged; he tramped the floor; he heaped on the head of the absent Horatio Junior every epithet of reproach his wrath could devise, the phrases driveling idiot and audacious puppy appearing to afford him the greatest measure of relief. Continuing his harangue, he threatened to disinherit his son; he smoked four cigarettes in succession; he tipped over the Boston fern. The rest of the things Horatio Senior said and what he did would not only be too gross to write down in the Chronicles of the Kings of Judah, but also would be improper to record here.

In the meantime, Mrs. Horatio knitted on.

At last when breathless and panting Horatio Senior, like an alarm clock ran down and sank exhausted into his chair, Mrs. Horatio began the second row of knit two, purl two and ventured the irrefutable observation that after all Horatio Junior was their only child.

As this could not be denied, it passed without challenge and gaining confidence to venture farther, she presently added, quite casually that a wife was a steadying influence in a young man's career.

Horatio Senior vouchsafed no reply. Perhaps he had no breath left to demur.

At any rate his wife, considering silence a favorable symptom, followed up her previous comments with the declaration that Sylvia Hayden was a nice little thing. This drew fire.

Horatio Senior sputtered something about "nothing but a penniless school-teacher—a nobody."

Very deliberately then Mrs. Horatio began the fourth row of her knitting and as her needles clicked off the stitches, she murmured pleasantly that if she remembered rightly this had been the very objection Horatio Senior's father had made to their own marriage.

At this Horatio Senior flushed scarlet and said promptly that fathers did not know anything about choosing wives for their sons; that his marriage had been ideal; that his Jennie had been the one wife in the world for him; that time had proved it—even to his parents; that she was the only person on earth who really understood him—which latter statement unquestionably demonstrated that all that proceeded out of the mouth of Horatio Senior was not vanity and vexation of spirit.

After this nothing was simpler than to complete the pink stripe and discuss just when Horatio Junior had better start East.

Had Sylvia dreamed when she licked the envelope's flap with her small red tongue and smoothed it down with her pretty white finger she was thus loosing Alton City's thunderbolts, she might, perhaps, have hesitated to send the letter she had penned and perhaps would not have started off so jauntily late that afternoon to post it.

As it was, she was ignorant of the future consequences of her act and went skipping across the wee azure pools the tide had left behind as gaily as if she were not making history.

And not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, but toward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the Doanes and Henry and his mother—the little old lady she had met on the train the day she arrived—wanted her to stay to supper. He would bring her home early in the evening. There would be a moon—Marcia need not worry.

Marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spite of knowing Sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxically enough, to worry madly.

Her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the cloth and prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreaded and yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summoned Stanley Heath to the small, round table.

"Sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "She telephoned she was going to stay over in town."

They seated themselves.

It was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the novelty of finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence.

"Would you—do you care for cheese soufflÉ?" stammered Marcia.

"Thank you."

"Perhaps you don't like cheese."

"I do—very much."

"I hope it is done."

"It is perfect."

"It's hard to get it out of the oven at the right moment. Sometimes it falls."

"This one hasn't," beamed Stanley.

"I don't know. Perhaps I might have left it in a second or two longer."

"It's wonderful!"

"I'm glad you like it. Rolls?"

"Rather! My, but you are a marvelous cook."

"Oh, not really. You're hungry—that's all. Things taste good when you are."

"It isn't that. Everything you put your hand to is well done."

"Nonsense!"

"It isn't nonsense and you know it. You're a marvelous person, Marcia."

"There is nothing marvelous about me."

"There is—your eyes, for one thing. Don't drop them, dear. I want to look at them."

"You are talking foolishness."

"Every man talks foolishness once in his life, I suppose. Perhaps I am talking it tonight because our time together is so short. I am leaving here tomorrow morning."

"Stanley!"

Across the table he caught her hand.

"I am well now and have no further excuse for imposing on your hospitality."

"As if it were imposing!"

"It is. I have accepted every manner of kindness from you—"

"Don't call it that," she interrupted.

"What else can I call it? I was a stranger and you took me in. It was sweet of you—especially when you knew nothing about me. Now the time has come for me to go. Tomorrow morning I am giving myself up to the Wilton sheriff."

"Oh, no—no!"

"But you said you wanted me to. It is the only square thing to do, isn't it?"

She made no answer.

He rose and came to her side, slipping an arm about her.

"Marcia. Dearest! I am doing what you wish, am I not?"

"I cannot bear it." The words were sharp with pain.

"You wanted me to go through with it."

She covered her face and he felt a shudder pass over her.

"Yes. But that was then," she whispered.

At the words, he drew her to her feet and into his arms.

"Marcia, beloved! Oh, my dear one, do I need to tell you I love you—love you with all my heart—my soul—all that is in me? You know it—know that every moment we have been together has been heaven. Tell me you love me, dear—for you do love me. Don't deny it—not tonight—our last night together. Say that you love me."

"You—know," she faltered, her arms creeping about his neck.

He kissed her then—her hair, her eyes, her neck, her lips—long, burning kisses that left her quivering beneath the rush of them.

Their passion brought her to herself and she drew away.

"What is it, dear?" he asked.

"We can't. We must not. I had forgotten."

"Forgotten?"

"Something stands between us—we have no right. Forgive me."

"But my dear—"

"We have no right," she repeated.

"You are thinking of the past," he challenged. "Marcia, the past is dead. It is the present only in which we live—the present—just us two—who love."

"We must not love."

"But we do, sweetheart," was his triumphant cry. "We do!"

"We must forget."

"Can you forget?" he reproached.

"I—I—can try."

"Ah, your tongue is too honest, Marcia. You cannot forget. Neither can I. Our pledge is given. We belong to one another. I shall not surrender what is mine—never."

"Tomorrow—"

"Let us not talk of tomorrow."

"We must. We shall be parted then."

"Only for a little while. I shall come back to you. Our love will hold. Absence, distance, nothing can part us—not really."

"No."

"Then tell me you love me so I may leave knowing the truth from your own sweet lips."

"I love you, Stanley—God help me!"

"Ah, now I can go! It will not be for long."

"It must be for forever, dear heart. You must not come back. Tonight must be—the end."

"Marcia!"

"Tonight must be the end," she repeated, turning away.

"You mean you cannot face tomorrow—the disgrace—"

"I mean tonight must be the end," she reiterated.

Through narrowed lids, he looked at her, scanning her averted face.

Then she heard him laugh bitterly, discordantly.

"So we have come to the Great Divide, have we?" he said. "I have, apparently, expected too much of you. I might have known it would be so. All women are alike. They desert a man when he needs them most. Their affection has no toughness of fibre. It snaps under the first severe strain. The prospect of sharing my shame is more than you can bear." Again he laughed. "Well, tonight shall be the end—tonight—now. Don't think I blame you. It is not your fault. I merely rated you too high, Marcia—believed you a bigger woman than you are, that's all. I have asked more than you were capable of giving. The mistake was mine—not yours."

He left her then.

Stunned by the torrent of his reproach, she stood motionless, watching while, without a backward glance, he passed into the hall and up the stairs. His receding footsteps grew fainter.

Even after he was out of sight, she remained immovable, her frightened eyes riveted on the doorway through which he had disappeared.

Prince Hal raised his head and sensing all was not well came uneasily to her side and, thrusting his nose into her inert hand, whined.

At his touch, something within her gave way. She swayed, caught at a chair and shrank into it, her body shaking and her breath coming in gasping, hysterical sobs.

The clock ticked on, the surf broke in muffled undertone, the light faded; the candles burned lower, flickered and overflowed the old pewter candle sticks; and still she sat there, her tearless, dilated eyes fixed straight before her and the setter crouching unnoticed at her feet.