Poor, brave-hearted girl! How pitiful and heartrending to a keen-eyed man of the world, seemed her poor, little sham about her father's trust in her! For I knew the facts, you know!

What a little thoroughbred she was! By Jove, I just sat there for a full two minutes, bending toward her worshipfully, but with such a lump choking my devilish throat that dash me if I could chirp a single word. Just sat there—that's all—blinking damply at her with my free eye, studying with growing wonder the light she managed to summon to her face; heartsick for the care-free mockery of the cherry lips, shaping seemingly in a meditative whistle; all my jolly heart beating time to the lithesome tapping of her smart little boot upon the wooden floor. And she? She, brave heart, leaning back watching me through her long, fringing lashes—forcing a quizzical smile to her face, the while the jolly worm was gnawing at her what-you-call-'ems!

And suddenly it came to me that I just couldn't and wouldn't let her go on this way, without the sympathy of the man she loved; without the precious consolation of knowing that he knew! She was being badgered and rough-shouldered and put upon and distrusted and maligned by every one she knew, and she had no one in all the world to turn to but me—and—

Oh, I wanted her to know what I thought, don't you know!

I slipped to the seat beside her.

"Er, Miss Billings—" I began, thinking absentmindedly of what I should say, and forgetting that we were quite alone.

"'Miss Billings!' Why do you call me that?" Her lovely brows puckered. "I remember, now, that's twice you—"

"Frances, then!" I corrected softly.

She straightened, her bosom lifting with a quick intake. By Jove, that was what she wanted!

"Oh!" Then she leaned slowly back, looking at me thoughtfully through half-closed eyes, her lips parted in the oddest smile.

And I screwed my monocle tight and let her have smile for smile, determined to chirp her up and make her feel our oneness—that sort of thing, you know. And I succeeded! For of a sudden her head went back and the joyous peal of her canary laugh started off the jolly birds in the trees above us.

"Oh, you—" A stare, and then another burst as she bent forward, face buried in her hands. Then it lifted sharply, flame-dyed—her lips tremulous, her eyes shining like sapphire stars. "Oh!" she gasped, and how I envied the little hand she pressed against her waist; but the windows—dash the windows! "That's—that's it—Frances—just that much! But, do you know, I don't—don't believe you really know my full name. I remember now several th—" She bent toward me witchingly, her wide blue eyes challenging my candor. "Honestly, now—do—you?"

So it was that thought that was tickling her! Well, by Jove, I had her there, for I had heard the judge mention her name in full. I would surprise her!

"Oh, don't I?" I exclaimed, winking as I polished my glass. "Well, how about Frances Leslie Billings?" I let her have it slowly, distinctly, and with yet a note of triumph I could not altogether hide. And then remorseful for her amazed expression, I explained frankly: "Got it from your father this morning, don't you know, during our long talk about you in the library."

"Wh—"

Then she swallowed and her face fell perfectly blank. By Jove, I could have kicked myself for a jolly ass for breaking it to her so raw! Of course, she would know that if her father talked of her, it would be nothing for me to hear that was true or kind—nothing she could wish might be said to the man she loved.

I hastened to reassure her:

"But I don't believe a dashed word of anything he said about you"—I spoke hotly—"and I don't care a jolly hang for what the others said, either—so there you are!"

"Oh, you don't?" Could tell how I had touched her by her expression, don't you know; and she fell to looking at me the queerest way. "And would you mind telling me who the 'others' are?"

I eyed her gloomily, sympathetically. As if she didn't know already!

"Well—oh, dash it, my mind has been filled with—er—just anything!" I began cautiously.

"I know,"—she murmured it as if to herself—"one can see that!" And she bit her lip.

"In the first place, you know"—and there I pulled up. No, dash it, I wasn't going to say a jolly word about poor Jack—no, sir! But then, about the other one—well, she was just a treacherous snake in the what's-its-name, and she ought to be exposed. By Jove, she should be!

"It's the frump, you know," I said indignantly.

"The—the what?"

Her pretty teeth flashed like the keyboards of a tiny organ—you could even hear a little gurgly, musical quiver somewhere behind. And then I remembered that, of course, she wouldn't know whom I meant.

"Oh, your guest, you know—your friend from school," I went on, trying to tread cautiously and yet feeling myself growing red. "Oh, see here now, I don't like to say things, but—er—"

"Oh, go on!" she trilled, her sweet face shining wistful.

"Well, I mean this—er—Miss Kirkland; came out with us this morning, don't you know. I think of her as the frump—little idea—er—nickname of mine, you know, she's so awful!" And I screwed my glass with a chuckle.

For an instant I thought she wouldn't catch it, she stared at me so blankly. Then the joke of it—the jolly aptness, so to speak—got her full and square, and she just lifted a scream, hugging her knee and rocking back and forth, her face suffused, her laughter pealing like a chime of bells.

And I just rocked, too, keeping her company. Really, I don't think I ever laughed so much since some chap plunked down on the hard crown of my new tile last winter. At least I wanted to laugh—in church, you know, and it's so awful how you feel there when something—oh, you know! And if you could have seen that poor fellow's face!

By Jove, how glad I was for her jolly sense of humor that could see the point of things so quickly, and think them clever. Always had so dashed little patience with stupid people, don't you know. And just here another little thing came to me and I let her have it:

"Oh, I say!"—I leaned nearer, chuckling—"your father pretends to think her a most beautiful and winning girl—fancy!" And my face stretched itself in such a jolly grin that I could hardly hold my glass.

She bent toward me, smiling adorably. "You mean this—er—'Miss Kirkland'?"

I nodded chortlingly.

She peered at me through her long what-you-call-'ems—oh, such a way!

"But you don't think so, do you?" How sweetly, how fetchingly she said it!

"Me?" I gasped. By Jove, in my horror, I lost my grip upon my jolly grammar. "Oh, I say now! I think the frump—this Miss Kirkland, you know—is a fright—regular freak, dash it! I told the judge so!"

"You—you—"

"Of course!" And I shrugged disgustedly, making the ugliest grimace I possibly could. "Why, dash it, if I were a woman and had a face like hers, I never would have left China, or England—or wherever her jolly home was—no, sir!"

She caught her breath with a little gasp—then she was off again! This time she rested her arms upon the rail behind and buried her head in them, her lovely shoulders jiggling up and down, her sobbing laughter sending her off at last into a spell of coughing.

"Oh!" she breathed, lifting at last her gloriously blushing face and dabbing at it with her ridiculous little handkerchief, "oh, you'll kill me—I know you will!"

I certainly had stirred her up, and I was delighted. It was funny to think of any one calling the frump beautiful—it must seem funnier still to her, of course—to Frances, I mean. Why, dash it, she seemed to find a funny side to it that I didn't, don't you know!

"Tell me, now"—she clasped her knee, lifting her lovely face coaxingly—"tell me all that she said about me—everything!"

And I did—every word, by Jove!

And no one could look into that sweet, ingenuous face as I proceeded, and doubt that the slanders were new to her. Never a jolly one touched her—only you could see their absurdity amused her. Several times I had to pause as she bent under a gale of laughter.

Only once was she brought up, shocked.

"Oh!" she uttered faintly, as I came to the intimation about her being hail-fellow-well-met with the footmen and her drinking and carousing with them and other men-servants until three in the morning. I realized that it wasn't the matter of the drinking that feazed her and drew from her little gasps as I came to this—knew that didn't bother her, don't you know, for I knew she did drink—could drink, I mean to say; for I had not forgotten the two full whisky glasses of high-proof Scotch she had tossed off that night in my rooms. Why, no, dash it, she was able to drink—it went in the family! I could never forget with what pride she had told me of putting her brother Jack under the table two nights running. That was all right—it was the other part of the frump's scandal that brought her up, standing, so to speak.

For now she really looked embarrassed, despite another lapse to laughter. Her face and neck were dyed a lovely crimson.

"Oh, dear!" she said finally; and she wiped her eyes. "What you must think of me!"—and she looked away, a pretty frown contracting her face; then the jolly dimple deepened once again and she choked into her handkerchief. "Oh, dear!" she repeated, biting her lip to hold her quivering mouth corners. "Oh, it's a shame," I heard her mutter; "I mustn't let him—it's too—" She wheeled upon me, her lips tightened. "Oh!" she ejaculated sharply, almost petulantly, and her foot struck smartly on the boards. "I wonder how much you think—think—"

"Think lots," I said simply, watching her little toe as it tapped.

"Well, I should think as much!" And this time her laugh was short—oddly constrained. She looked away off down the slope to the river. "Oh!" This time it was a tiny gasp as of dismay. And the toe tapped like an electric what's-its-name.

"Yes," I said, watching it musingly, "I suppose it's because you're the only girl, don't you know, that I ever did think of before—oh, ever at all, dash it!"

The toe stopped. I could feel her looking at me sidewise, but I did not glance up, that I remember; was looking down, trying to get hold of a dashed idea I wanted to express.

"Don't know," I continued, boring away at her toe, yet hardly seeing it, "but suppose that's the reason I knew all the time she was lying; but still, somehow that doesn't seem to be the real reason I knew. I think the real reason I knew it couldn't be and wasn't true was"—I sighed heavily—"oh, dash it, it's so hard to get hold of the jolly thing!"

And there was a pause.

"The real reason?" her voice coaxed gently.

"Was because—" Then she moved the toe and it put me out—"I think just because—oh, yes, I know now!" And I looked up eagerly. "Just because I knew that you—are you!" I finished beamingly.

"Oh, I see!" She said it musingly, her finger lightly pressing upon her lips, her beautiful eyes studying me with the oddest, keenest side-glance.

A pause; and then: "And how long have you known me, pray? Just a—"

"A thousand years!" I said promptly and earnestly. "A thousand years and all my life, don't you know! Never will know you any better."

"I wonder," she murmured, nodding slowly. And then for a moment she didn't say a word, just sat there looking me over curiously, her expression half shy, half quizzical, don't you know.

Then her smile flashed again—a radiant, dazzling brightness that brought her nearer, like the effect of the sunlight's sudden gleam there at times upon the blue line of the "West Shore" away across the broad, three-mile span of the old Tappan Zee.

"And now"—again her splendid young arms were clasped, wing-like, behind her head; and its golden glory hung like a picture against the dark vine leaves, bossed with the clustered purple flowers—"now," she repeated, settling comfortably, "you must just go on and tell me the rest—I can bear it! What did my"—her big blue eyes twinkled as she smiled—"my father say about me?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, I can't, you know!" I demurred. "I say, what's the use, dash it?" Poor old boy, somehow I just hated to round on him—he was so jolly hard hit already; Jack, don't you know! Besides—

"Please!" Jove, how she said it!

"Oh, dash it, I'm afraid it will hurt you," I protested uneasily; "and I don't think the judge really—"

"I just don't care that"—a snap from her little fingers and her arm went back—"for anything he ever said about me that was mean! So, please go on—I must go dress for luncheon."

And so I just took a deep breath, a long running leap, and cleared the bar—told her all, you know!

Oddly, this time she didn't laugh—and I knew why: it was her father, and it had cut her to the heart. This was what I had feared. As I proceeded, narrating the interview in the library, she just grew rosier and rosier red, but sat looking at me wide-eyed and unflinching. The pulsation of her bosom quickened a little, but her dear face remained unchanged, save for her little trick of dragging her under-lip through her white teeth.

"And, by Jove, that's all!" I finished with relief as I mopped my face. "But who cares, don't you know, or believes any bit of it? Anyhow, we don't—for we know!"

"Are you sure?" She spoke gravely, yet in her eyes were the dancing star-motes of a laugh. "The extravagance, the gambling, and the—oh, all of it? I must tell you I heard some sad things myself about Francis Billings while I was at Cambridge—"

I grunted scornfully. "I know: from that two-faced cat, Miss Kirkland! Say, how I wish, by Jove, that woman would pack up and go back to China—the sponge!" And I screwed my glass indignantly.

"Oh, now!" she remonstrated sweetly, "you mustn't say that! You might be sorry!" She smiled archly.

I grunted contemptuously.

Again she rested her little chin upon her hand, eying me thoughtfully, earnestly.

"And so you don't believe any of it?"

I chuckled at the idea. "Oh, I say now, Frances, you know I don't!" And I shoved a bit nearer, looking into her eyes. But just then I saw Wilkes come out and look around.

And she must have glanced about quickly and have seen him, too, for as I shifted my eyes to her again she was blushing furiously and had moved a bit.

"I'm afraid," she said measuredly, her chin lifting a little, "you do believe—part of it!" And in her eyes was a glint of fire.

And then as my face fell blankly, a slow little smile came creeping back to hers. Her eyes softened.

"Forgive me," she said gently; "I misunderstood!"

The darling! And, dash it, if they were going to have vines to a pavilion, why didn't they have vines?

"Do you know," she said, "I don't believe you do believe any of these awful things could be true about me,"—her voice quickened here—"and do you know I just think it's lovely of you! I do!" And her dear voice dropped like the softer notes of a what's-its-name. Her hands lay in her lap and she was studying me in the kindest, sweetest way! And I wanted to tell her how good she was and how much I loved her, don't you know, but just then, behind the pavilion, came the gardener. He was talking to one of his assistants about slugs—dash slugs!

And then her face lighted again as though she would speak and I leaned eagerly toward her—waiting, expectant.

"When Arthur made his court at—" she began, and, by Jove, my jolly heart sank. If she would only drop Arthur and give me a chance to make my court, dash it! "Camelot, you know," she went on, and I almost groaned. What did I care that he came a lot? Perhaps, now, if I could divert her mind—

"Oh, I say, you know," I broke in interestedly, "what was it you were—er—humming—just now, don't you know."

"Vivian's song—don't you remember it?"

I tried to think, but I couldn't seem to place her, though I knew the whole line of 'em back to Lottie Gilson.

I finally had to shake my head.

She smiled. "Don't you know," she said:

She was right! I didn't know the jolly thing, that was a fact, but somehow I liked the swing of it. She went on, and struck me with another remark. By Jove, she seemed to have forgotten about the jolly song and I was devilish glad, for I had rather hear her talk, don't you know.

"If?" I ejaculated reproachfully, hitching nearer. But she only smiled, and continued her remark:

"Oh!" I uttered. For, by Jove, she had said it—the thing I had felt all the time and couldn't express; the something that had been with me all along in connection with herself. And here she had the jolly idea pat upon her tongue! I just blinked at her admiringly—didn't dare speak, you know; afraid I'd break the thread of what's-its-name.

She went on telling me something about a lover's lute, and it was hard not to speak then, for I did so want to ask what a jolly lute was. And then some remark about specks in garnered fruit—here her line of thought had been changed, I knew, by some remark of the gardener outside: something about worms and the orchard. However, I just chirped up a nod and listened as attentively as though she had gone right on. She was busy with her hair now, but with her mind still on the worm, murmured abstractedly:

And just here, with a little clatter, her back comb struck the floor, bounding to the other side of the pavilion. As I scrambled to get it, her voice lifted through a choke of laughter:

The idea!

I laughed as I caught the thing up and whirled, my hand outstretched to lay it in her own. She was on her feet, pulling down her belt, and paused to lift away a leaf that clung to her snowy skirt. And just here, the gardener's voice lifted startlingly across the park to some one distant and invisible:

"Better bring paris green, Jud; it's the only way we'll ever get rid of 'em," he bawled. "I see they're going after the leaves now, and they can live on them and air. Pizen'll fix 'em, though!"

The comb outstretched, I stood staring at Frances, doubled over and writhing. And then, with a long-drawn gasp that was half a screech, her lithesome figure straightened, her head went back, and from her throat there trilled the very joy of health and youth and happy days.

"Oh!" she gasped, her hand pressing to her side. And while I looked at her anxiously, she went on pantingly, her eyes bright with tears:

"Jove!" I said delightedly, placing the comb in her outstretched hand and pressing it—the hand, I mean, dash it! "I do, don't you know! I trust you all in all!"