Anne left town about the middle of June and did not return until late in September. She surprised every one who knew her by going to Nova Scotia, where she took a cottage in one of the quaint old coast towns. Lutie and George and the baby spent the month of August with her. Near the close of their visit, Anne made an announcement that, for one day at least, caused them to doubt, very gravely, whether she was in her right mind. George, very much perturbed, went so far as to declare to Lutie in the seclusion of their bedroom that night, that Anne was certainly dotty. And the queer part of it all was that he couldn't, for the life of him, feel sorry about it!

The next morning they watched her closely, at times furtively, and waited for her to either renounce the decision of the day before or reveal some sign that she had no recollection of having made the astounding statement at all,—in which case they could be certain that she had been a bit flighty and would be in a position to act accordingly. (Get a specialist after her, or something like that.) But Anne very serenely discoursed on the sweetest sleep she had known in years, and declared she was ready for anything, even the twelve-mile tramp that George had been trying so hard to get her to take with him. Her eyes were brighter, her cheeks rosier than they had been for months, and, to George's unbounded amazement, she ate a hearty breakfast with them.

"I have written to Simmy," said she, "and James has posted the letter. The die is cast. Congratulate me!"

"But, hang it all," cried George desperately, "I still believe you are crazy, Anne, so—how can I congratulate you? My Lord, girl—"

He stopped short, for Lutie sprang up from the table and threw her arms around Anne. She kissed her rapturously, all the time gurgling something into her ear that George could not hear, and perhaps would not have understood if he had. Then they both turned toward him, shining-eyed and exultant. An instant later he rushed over and enveloped both of them in his long, strong arms and shouted out that he was crazy too.

Anne's letter to Simmy was a long one, and she closed it with the sentence: "You may expect me not later than the twentieth of September."

Thorpe grew thin and haggard as the summer wore away; his nerves were in such a state that he seriously considered giving up his work, for the time being, at least. The truth was gradually being forced in upon him that his hand was no longer as certain, no longer as steady as it had been. Only by exercising the greatest effort of the will was he able to perform the delicate work he undertook to do in the hospitals. He was gravely alarmed by the ever-growing conviction that he was never sure of himself. Not that he had lost confidence in his ability, but he was acutely conscious of having lost interest. He was fighting all the time, but it was his own fight and not that of others. Day and night he was fighting something that would not fight back, and yet was relentless; something that was content to sit back in its own power and watch him waste his strength and endurance. Each succeeding hour saw him grow weaker under the strain. He was fighting the thing that never surrenders, never weakens, never dies. He was struggling against a mighty, world-old Giant, born the day that God's first man was created, and destined to live with all God's men from that time forth: Passion.

Time and again he went far out of his way to pass by the house near Washington Square, admittedly surreptitious in his movements. On hot nights he rode down Fifth Avenue on the top of the stages, and always cast an eye to the right in passing the street in which Anne lived, looking in vain for lights in the windows of the closed house. And an hundred times a day he thought of the key that no longer kept company with others at the end of a chain but lay loose in his trousers' pocket. Times there were when an almost irresistible desire came upon him to go down there late at night and enter the house, risking discovery by the servants who remained in quarters, just for a glimpse of the rooms upstairs she had described,—her own rooms,—the rooms in which she dreamed of him.

He affected the society of George and Lutie, spending a great deal of his leisure with them, scorning himself the while for the perfectly obvious reason that moved him. Automobile jaunts into the country were not infrequent. He took them out to the country inns for dinner, to places along the New Jersey and Long Island shores, to the show grounds at Coney Island. There were times when he could have cursed himself for leading them to believe that he was interested only in their affairs and not in this affair of his own; times when he realised to the full that he was using them to satisfy a certain craving. They were close to Anne in every way; they represented her by proxy; they had letters from her written in the far-off town in Canada; she loved them, she encouraged them, she envied them. And they talked of her,—how they talked of her!

More than all else, George and Lutie personified Love. They represented love triumphant over all. Their constancy had been rewarded, and the odds had been great against it. He was contented and happy when near them, for they gave out love, they radiated it, they lived deep in the heart of it. He craved the company of these serene, unselfish lovers because they were brave and strong and inspiring. He fed hungrily on their happiness, and he honestly tried to pay them for what they gave to him.

He was glad to hear that George was going into a new and responsible position in the fall,—a six thousand dollar a year job in the office of a big manufacturing company. He rejoiced not because George was going ahead so splendidly but because his advancement was a justification of Anne's faith in her seemingly unworthy brother,—and, moreover, there was distinctly something to be said for the influence of love.

When George's family departed for the north, Thorpe was like a lost soul. In the first week of their absence, he found himself more than once on the point of throwing everything aside and rushing off after them. His scruples, his principles, his resolutions were shaken in the mighty grasp of despair. There were to be no more letters, and, worse than all else, she would not be lonely!

One day late in August Simmy Dodge burst in upon him. He had motored in from Southampton and there was proof that he had not dallied along the way. His haste in exploding in Thorpe's presence was evidence of an unrestrained eagerness to have it over with.

"My God!" he shouted, tugging at his goggles with nervous hands from which he had forgotten to remove his gloves. "You've got to put a stop to this sort of thing. It can't go on. She must be crazy,—stark, raving crazy. You must not let her do this—"

"What the devil are you talking about?" gasped Thorpe, acutely alarmed by the little man's actions, to say nothing of his words, which under other circumstances might have been at least intelligent.

"Anne! Why, she's—What do you think she's going to do? Or maybe you know already. Maybe you've put her up to this idiotic—Say, what do you know about it?" He was glaring at his friend. The goggles rested on the floor in a far corner of the consultation-room.

"In heaven's name, Simmy, cool off! I haven't the remotest idea of what you are talking about. What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened yet. And it mustn't happen at all. You've got to stop her. She has threatened to do it before, and now she comes out flat-footed and says she's going to do it,—absolutely, irrevocably, positively. Is that plain enough for you? Absolutely, irrev—"

"Would you mind telling me what she is going to do?"

Simmy sat down rather abruptly and wiped his moist, dust-blackened brow.

"She's going to give away every damned nickel of that money she got from old Mr. Thorpe,—every damned nickel of it, do you hear? My God! She is crazy, Brady. We've got to put her in a sanitarium—or torium—as soon as we can get hold of—Hi! Look out!"

Thorpe had leaped forward and was shaking him furiously by the shoulders. His eyes were wide and gleaming.

"Say that again! Say it again!" he shouted.

"Say it, damn you, Simmy! Can't you see that I want you to say it again—"

"Say—it—again," chattered Simmy. "Let go! How the dickens can I say anything with you mauling me all over the—"

"I'm sorry! I will—try to be sensible—and quiet. Now, go on, old chap,—tell me all there is to tell." He sank into a chair and leaned forward, watching every expression that crossed his friend's face—watching with an intensity that finally got on Simmy's nerves.

"She wrote me,—I got the letter yesterday,—Lordy, what did I do with it? Never mind. I'll look for it later on. I can remember nearly every word, so it doesn't matter. She says she has made up her mind to give all that money to charity. Some darned nonsense about never knowing happiness as long as she has the stuff in her possession. Absolute idiocy! Wants me to handle the matter for her. Lawyer, and all that sort of thing, you see. I know what the game is, and so do you. She'd sooner have you than all that money. By Gosh! I—here's something I never thought of before." He paused and wiped his brow, utter bewilderment in his eyes. "It has just occurred to me that I'd sooner have Anne than all the money I've got. I've said that to myself a thousand times and—But that has nothing to do with the case. Lordy, it gave me a shock for a second or two, though. Seems to knock my argument all to smash. Still there is a difference. I didn't earn my money. Where was I? Oh, yes,—er—she's got the idea into her head that she can never be anything to you until she gets rid of that money. Relief fund! Red Cross! Children's Welfare! Tuberculosis camps! All of 'em! Great snakes! Every nickel! Can you beat it? Now, there's just one way to stop this confounded nonsense. You can do it, and you've got to come to the mark."

Thorpe was breathing fast, his eyes were glowing. "But suppose that I fail to regard it as confounded nonsense. Suppose—"

"Will you marry Anne Thorpe if she gives up this money?" demanded Simmy sharply.

"That has nothing to do with Anne's motives," said Thorpe grimly. "She wants to give it up because it is burning her soul, Simmy."

"Rats! You make me sick, talking like that. She is giving it up for your sake and not because her soul is even uncomfortably hot. Now, I want to see you two patch things up, cut out the nonsense, and get married,—but I don't intend to see Anne make a fool of herself if I can help it. That money is Anne's. The house is hers. The—By the way, she says she intends to keep the house. But how in God's name is she going to maintain it if she hasn't a dollar in the world? Think the Red Cross will help her when she begins to starve down there—"

"I shall do nothing to stop her, Simmy," said Thorpe firmly. "If she has made up her mind to give all that money to charity, it is her affair, not mine. God knows the Red Cross Society and the Relief Funds need it now more than ever before. I'll tell you what I think of Anne Tresslyn's sacri—"

"Anne Thorpe, if you please."

"She hates—do you hear?—hates the money that my grandfather gave to her. It hurts her in more ways than you can ever suspect. Her honour, her pride, her peace of mind—all of them and more. She sold me out, and she hates the price she received. It is something deeper with her than mere—"

"You are wrong," broke in Simmy, suddenly calm. He leaned forward and laid his hand on Thorpe's knee. "She wants you more than anything else in the world. You are worth more to her than all the money ever coined. It is no real sacrifice, the way she feels about it now, but—listen to me! I am not going to stand idly by and see her make herself as poor as Job's turkey unless I know—positively know, do you hear,—that she is not to lose out entirely. You've just got to say one thing or the other, Brady, before it's too late. If she does all this for you, what will you do for her?"

Thorpe got up from his chair and began pacing the office, his lips compressed, his eyes lowered. At last he stopped in front of Simmy.

"If I were you, Simmy, I would tell her at once that—it will be of no avail."

Simmy glowered to the best of his ability. "Have you never asked her to make this sacrifice? Have you never given her a ray of hope on which—"

"Yes,—I will be honest with you,—I asked her if she could give it up."

"There you are!" said Simmy triumphantly. "I was pretty sure you had said something—"

"My God, Simmy, I—I don't know what to do," groaned Thorpe, throwing himself into a chair and staring miserably into the eyes of his friend.

"There is just one thing you are not to do," said the other gently. "You are not to let her do this thing unless you are prepared to meet her half-way. If she does her half, you must do yours. I am looking out for her interests now, old chap, and I mean to see that she gets fair play. You have no right to let her make this sacrifice unless you are ready to do your part."

"Then say to her for me that she must keep the money, every penny of it."

Simmy was staggered. "But she—she doesn't want it," he muttered, lamely. His face brightened. "I say, old boy, why let the measly money stand in the way? Take her and the money too. Don't be so darned finicky about—"

"Come, come, old fellow," protested Thorpe, eyeing him coldly.

"All right," said Simmy resignedly. "I'll say no more along that line. But I'm going to make you give her a square deal. This money is hers. She bargained for it, and it belongs to her. She sha'n't throw it away if I can help it. I came here to ask you to use your influence, to help me and to help her. You say that she is to keep the money. That means—there's no other chance for her?"

"She knows how I feel about it," said Thorpe doggedly.

"I'll tell her just what you've said. But suppose that she insists on going ahead with this idiotic scheme of hers? Suppose she really hates the money and wants to get rid of it, just as she says? Suppose this is no part of a plan to reconcile—Well, you see what I mean. What then? What's to become of her?"

"I don't know," said Thorpe dully. "I don't know."

"She will be practically penniless, Brady. Her mother will not help her. God, how Mrs. Tresslyn will rage when she hears of this! Lordy, Lordy!"

Thorpe leaned back in the chair and covered his eyes with his hands. For a long time he sat thus, scarcely breathing. Simmy watched him in perplexity.

"It would be awful to see Anne Tresslyn penniless," said the little man finally, a queer break in his voice. "She's a fair fighter, my boy. She doesn't whimper. She made her mistake and she's willing to pay. One couldn't ask more than that of any one. It means a good deal for her to chuck all this money. I don't want her to do it. I'm fond of her, Brady. I, for one, can't bear the thought of her going about in rummy old clothes and—well, that's just what it will come to—unless she marries some one else."

The hands fell from Thorpe's eyes suddenly. "She will not marry any one else," he exclaimed. "What do you mean? What have you heard? Is there—"

"My Lord, you don't expect the poor girl to remain single all the rest of her life just to please you, do you?" roared Simmy, springing to his feet. "You must not forget that she is young and very beautiful and she'll probably be very poor. And God knows there are plenty of us who would like to marry her!" He took a turn or two up and down the room and then stopped before Thorpe, in whose eyes there was a new and desperate anxiety, born of alarm. "She wants me to arrange matters so that she can begin turning over this money soon after she comes down in September. She hasn't touched the principal. If she sticks to her intention, I'll have to do it. Here is her letter. I'll read it to you. George and Lutie know everything, and she is writing to her mother, she says. Not a word about you, however. Now, listen to what she says, and—for God's sake, do something!"