Priscilla Glenn always looked back on the next four weeks of her life as a transition stage between one incarnation and another. Kenmore, and that which had gone to the making of her life previous to her meeting with John Boswell, seemed to have accomplished their purpose and left her detached and finished, up to a certain point, for the next period of her existence. In the severing of all the ties of the past, even affection, gratitude, and memory, for the time being, were held in abeyance. This was a merciful state, for, had ordinary emotions and sentiments held her, she would have been unfitted for the difficult task of readjustment which she gradually achieved, simply because of her dulled mental and spiritual sensations.

The noise and flash of the big city bewildered and dazzled the girl from the In-Place and encrusted her with an unreality that spared her many a pang of loss, and also fear for the future. Boswell's apartment, high above the street and overlooking the Hudson River and Palisades, became a veritable sanctuary from which she dreaded to emerge and to which she clung in a passion of self-preservation. The gray wall of stone across the sparkling stream grew to be, in her vivid fancy, the barrier between the past and future. Against it, unseen, faint, but persistent, beat what once had been—her grim father, her weak, tearful mother, lonely, kindly Master Farwell, and all the lesser folk of Kenmore. Pressing close and straining to hold her, these dim, shadowy memories clustered, but she no longer appeared a part of them, like them, or in any way connected with them. On the other hand, below the eyrie dwelling in which she was temporarily sheltered, lay the whirlpool of sound and motion into which, sooner or later, she must plunge.

With keen appreciation and understanding of this phase of her development, John Boswell kept conversation and life upon the surface, and rarely permitted a letting-down of thought. Cautiously, and not too often, he took his guest on tours of inspection and watched her while she underwent new ordeals or experienced pain from unknown thrills. He had never been more interested or amused in his life, and, in his enthusiasm, exaggerated Priscilla's capabilities. He revelled in her frankness and her confidence; he learned from her more of Farwell than he could have learned in any other way, and his faithful heart throbbed in pity, pride, and affection for the lonely master of the In-Place, who, little heeding his own progress, had triumphed over his old and lesser self at last.

The home of Boswell was a large and sunny apartment high up in the huge building. Only one servant, a marvellously silent and efficient Japanese, ran the economic machinery, awesomely defended Boswell's library when the master retired to perform his mystic rites, and in all relations was exemplary. Poor Boswell's rites comprised a devouring appetite for reading and a rather happy talent for turning off a short story as unique and human as he was himself.

After Priscilla Glenn arrived, Toky, as the servant was called, was tested to the uttermost. Never before had Boswell introduced a woman into the sphere sacred to Man. Toky disapproved, was utterly disgusted; he lost his implicit faith in his master's wisdom, but he adopted a manner at once so magnanimous and charming that Boswell set to work and planned future gifts of appreciation for his servant.

No other woman came to the apartment; Boswell shrank from them, not bitterly or resentfully, but sensitively. Men took him more or less for granted when he touched their lives; women overdid the determination, on their parts, to set him at ease. Long since he had turned his poor, misshapen back upon the very natural and legitimate desire for the happy mingling of both sexes, but after Priscilla Glenn became his guest he recognized the need of women friends in a sharp and painful manner. They could have helped him so much; could have solved so many problems for him and the girl; but as it was he had to do the best he could alone.

The hundred dollars, still to be repaid to Farwell, worked wonders in the week following the arrival of the Beetle and the Butterfly, as Boswell insisted upon calling himself and Priscilla. Having no power at court, Boswell cast himself on the mercy of lesser folks and managed, by way of secret nods and whispers, to gain the coÖperation of sympathetic-looking shop girls in order to array Priscilla in garments that would secure her and him from impudent stares and offensive leers. The evenings following these shopping expeditions were devoted to "casting up accounts." Priscilla was absolutely lacking in worldly wisdom, but she had a sense of accuracy that drove Boswell to the outer edge of veracity. Never having bought an article of clothing for herself, Priscilla attacked this new problem with perfectly blank faith. Prices often surprised and startled her by their smallness, but the results obtained were gloriously gratifying.

"I can better understand the lure of the States now, Mr. Boswell," she said one evening as the two sat in the library with the wind howling down Boswell's exaggerations and the fire illuminating the girl's face. "Kenmore prices were impossible, but one can go wild here for so little. Just fancy! That whole beautiful suit for two dollars and eighty-seven——"

"Eighty-nine!" Boswell severely broke in, shaking his pencil at her as he sat perched, like a benign gargoyle, by his study table. "I'll not have Farwell defrauded while he cannot protect his own interests."

"Two eighty-nine," Priscilla agreed, with a laugh so merry and carefree that the listener dropped his tired eyes. "And how much does that leave of the hundred, Mr. Boswell? I tremble when I think of the silk gown so soft and pretty, the slippers and stockings to match, and the storm coat, umbrella, heavy shoes, and—and—other things."

Boswell referred to his notes and long lines of figures.

"All told, and in round numbers, there are forty-seven dollars and three cents left."

"It's marvellous! wonderful!" Priscilla exclaimed. "You are sure, Mr. Boswell?"

"Do you doubt me?"

"Sometimes I do, you are so kind, so generous, and under ordinary circumstances it would seem impossible to buy things so cheap. You must select your shops carefully."

"One has to on a moderate allowance."

Then quite suddenly Priscilla Glenn spoke quickly and breathlessly:

"Mr. Boswell, I—I must begin my training. Have you made any arrangements? And, when I go, will they pay me from the start?"

Boswell grew grave as he thought of the knowledge that would come concerning dollars and cents later on.

"I have started operations," he replied; "in a short time you will be able to begin your studies, and I hear they will pay you the princely sum of ten dollars a month from the day you are accepted. Canadians are greatly in demand."

"Ten dollars!" gasped Priscilla, "Ten dollars a month! when I think what this hundred has done, and the twelve months in each year, it—it dazzles me!"

Boswell gave an uncomfortable laugh. In the light of nearby disillusionment his practical joke looked mean and ghastly.

Then, with another abrupt change of thought, Priscilla brought Boswell again at bay.

"Before I go into training," she said, "I must go and see Master Farwell's friend—his old friend, you know. I feel very guilty and ungrateful, but it has all been so strange and bewildering, I have seemed dead and done for and then born again, I could not help myself; but I can now. Please tell me all about her, Mr. Boswell, and how I can find her."

Boswell dropped the pencil upon the mahogany desk and looked blankly at Priscilla.

"Let us sit by the fire," he said presently, "I am cold and—tired. Turn down the lights."

They took their positions near the hearth: the dwarf in his low, deep leather chair with its wide "wings" that hid him so mercifully; Priscilla in the small rocker that from the first had seemed to meet every curve and line of her long, young body with restful welcome.

"And now," Priscilla urged, "please tell me. I feel, to-night, like myself once more. I am adjusted to the new life, I hope, ready to do my part."

When John Boswell cast aside his whimsical phase he was a very simple and direct man. He, too, was becoming adjusted to Priscilla's presence in his home and her rightful demands upon him.

"Yes, I will tell you," he said slowly, wearily.

"Perhaps you are too tired to-night, Mr. Boswell? To-morrow will do."

"No. I never sleep when the wind howls; it gets into my imagination. I'd rather talk. The thing I have to tell you—is what I shall tell Farwell if I ever see him again. It's rather a bungling thing I've done. I'll receive my reward, doubtlessly, but I would do the same, were I placed in the same position, over and over again.

"Farwell Maxwell, known to you as Anton Farwell, has been part, the biggest part, of my life since we were young boys. We were about as pitiful a contrast as can be imagined, and for that reason met each other's needs more completely. We had only one thing in common—money. He was a straight, handsome fellow, while I was—what you see before you—a crooked, distorted creature, but one in whose heart and soul dwelt all the cravings and aspirations of youth and intelligence. I was alone in the world. My father died before my birth, and I cost my mother—her life. Farwell had, until he was twenty, an adoring though foolish mother, who laid undue emphasis upon his rights and privileges. She, and an older brother, died when he was twenty-one—died before the trouble came, but not before they had done all they could to train him for it. At twenty-one he was a selfish, hot-headed fellow with a fortune at his command, a confused sense of right and wrong, an ungoverned, artistic nature swayed by impulse, and, yes, honest affection and generous flashes. And I? Well, I found I could buy with my money what otherwise I must have gone without, but the shadow never counted for the substance with me. The fawning favour, which held its sneer in check, filled me with disgust, and I would have been a bitter, lonely fellow but—for Farwell.

"I never could quite understand him; I do not to-day, but he, from the beginning, did not seem to recognize or admit my limitations. Through preparatory school and college we went side by side. He called me by the frank and brutal names that boys and men only use to equals. I wonder if you can understand when I say that to hear him address me as an infernal coward, when I shrank from certain things, was about the highest compliment I knew?"

"Yes," murmured Priscilla, "I can understand that." She could not see Boswell; the low, impassioned words came from out the shadows like thoughts. "Yes, I can quite understand how you felt."

"I am glad that you can, for then you will see—why I have done—what I could for Farwell—when he needed me. Back in those old days he was not content to shame me into playing my part; by that power of his, that worked both good and evil, he compelled others, in accepting him, to accept me on equal terms. There was a seat for me at the tables to which he was invited; he discovered my poor talent for telling a story, and somehow hypnotized others into considering me a wit! A wit!"

A silence fell between the two by the fire. Priscilla's throat was hard and dry, her heart aching with pity.

"And then," Boswell continued drearily, "the crash came when he was only twenty-five! I suppose he was savagely primitive. That was why externals did not count so much with him. He could not brook opposition, especially if injustice marked it; he was never able to estimate or eliminate. He was like a child when an obstacle presented itself. If he could not get around it, he attacked it with blind passion.

"It was part of his nature to espouse the cause of the weak and needy; that was what held him, unconsciously, to me; it was what attracted him to Joan Moss."

The name fell upon Priscilla's mind like a shock. The story was nearing the crisis.

"She was outwardly beautiful; inwardly she was as deformed—as I! But in neither case was he ever able to get the right slant. He loved us both in his splendid, uncritical way. His love brought me to his feet in abject devotion: it lured the woman to accomplish his destruction. Something, some one, menaced her! He tried to sweep the evil aside, but——"

"Yes, yes, please go on!" Priscilla was breathless.

"Well, he couldn't sweep it aside; so he committed—murder."

"Oh! Mr. Boswell!"

The shuddering cry drew Boswell to the present. He remembered that his listener knew Farwell only as a friend and gentle comrade. Her shock was natural.

"You—you never guessed? Why do you think he, that brilliant fellow, stayed hidden like a dead thing all these years?"—there was a quiver in Boswell's voice—"hidden so deep that—not even I dared to go to him for fear I would be followed and he again trapped! Oh! 'twas an ugly thing he did; but he was driven to insanity—even his judges believed that—at the last; but his victim was too big a man to go unavenged, so they hunted Farwell down, caught him in a trap, and tried to finish him, but he got away and they thought him—dead."

"Yes, yes," moaned Priscilla, "yes, I know. And the woman—did her heart break?"

At this Boswell leaned forward, and, in the fire's glow, Priscilla saw his face grow cruel and hard.

"Her heart break? No, she went promptly to the devil, once she was sure she had lost Farwell and his money. Down to the last hope she made him believe in her. How she acted! But when he was reported dead, well!"—and Boswell gave a harsh laugh—"her heart did not break!"

A sound brought Boswell back to the dim room.

"You are—crying?" he said slowly; "crying for him?"

"For him, yes, and for you!"

"For me?"—a wonderful tenderness stole into the man's voice—"for me? I do not think any one before—ever cried for me. Thank you. You understand what all this meant to me? What a—woman you will be—if——"

Priscilla raised her tear-stained face and her lips quivered as she recalled that Farwell had said almost exactly the same words to her back there in the In-Place. She understood because she had been lonely and known the suffering of the lonely. She must never forget, never fail those who needed her! But Boswell was talking on again with a new note of feeling in his voice.

"While I thought him dead I sank back into my shell, sank lower than I had ever been before. I wanted to die; wanted it so truly that I planned it; grew interested in arranging my affairs. Preparing to die became my excitement, and when everything was ready, Farwell spoke to me—from his grave! That letter from your In-Place worked a miracle upon me. While he lived there would always be something for me to do. He had made a place in the world for me; I could keep his place ready for him. It was a small return, but it meant life—for me.

"There were years when Farwell felt he was coming back. I heard from him spring and autumn, and there were hope and promise each time. When people forgot, he would return, and he wanted to go to—to Joan Moss himself with his story. So long as he knew that she was alive and faithful it was enough, and, besides, he realized that had she or I gone to him just then it might have been fatal. He believed that if she knew where he was she would hasten to him!

"Well, just at first I thought that he might come at any time and might rescue—Joan Moss. I was even willing for him to have her if it could add any happiness to him. Then there was the money—his money. I kept his belief in that, too. Everything of his went at the time of the trial, but mine was his, so that was a small matter. I suppose all the sentiment and passion that most men spread over their entire lives were, in me, concentrated on Farwell. When I thought of him caged and alone, in the wilds, I found lying to him about the only thing I could do. So I kept his belief in Joan Moss and his fortune. Then something happened to him. I never knew what it was, but it seemed to take all the hope and courage from him. He wanted me to see that Joan Moss was well taken care of, and in case of his death she must have all that he died possessed of. Just at that time Joan Moss came to me, a wreck! She lived only six months, but for his sake I saw that she had all that he would have had for her. She thought that he gave it to her, too, or at least she thought his money gave it, since it was in his will that she should have it. His name was on her lips when the end came. I will tell him that some day. It will help him to forgive me. After that I wrote and wrote to him, making frantic efforts to secure to him, until he were free, what existed no longer on earth! That is all."

The fire had died down and become ashy; the wind no longer howled; the night had fallen into peace at last.

Priscilla got up stiffly, for she was cold and nerve-worn. She walked unsteadily to Boswell, her tear-stained face twitching with emotion, her hands outstretched. In her eyes was the look that only once or twice in his life had Boswell ever seen directed toward him by any human being—the look that claimed the hidden and best in him, forgetting the deformities that limited him.

"I think you are the best man on earth, the noblest friend. Oh! what can we do for Master Farwell?"

Quite simply Boswell took the hands in his. Her eyes made him brave and strong, and her "we" throbbed in his thoughts like a warm and tender caress.

"You must leave that to me," he said gently, giving his kindly smile. "I cannot share this burden with you. So long have I borne it that it has become sacred to me. It means only making the story a little longer, a little stronger. Some day he will have to know—some day; but not now! not now!"

Just then a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. Solemnly, insistently, the twelve strokes rose and fell.

"The wind has passed," whispered Boswell.

"Yes, and the fire is dead. You are very, very tired, I am sure," Priscilla murmured.

Something new and maternal had entered into her thought and voice. While life lasted she was always to see in the crippled man a brave and patient soul who played with sternest problems because he had no other toys with which to while away his dreary years; no other offerings for them he loved.

"Yes. The play is over for—to-night. The Property Man can take his rest until—to-morrow. Turn on the lights, Priscilla Glenn. You and I must find our way out of the darkness."

"Let me help you, Mr. Boswell."

"Help me? That sounds very kind. I will make believe that I am ninety! Yes, you may help me. Thank you! And now good night. You need not write of—Joan Moss to Farwell. I am grateful because you understand and appreciate my—my attempt. I can bring the tale to a close in great style. I was a bit discouraged, but it seems clear and convincing now. That is often the way in my trade of story-maker. We come against a blank wall, only to find there a gateway that opens to our touch."