As to human wisdom, the best that can be said is that some of us are less crazy than others. Also, that the habitually foolish person, he who is foolish by preference—or by unalterable Fate—is less disturbing than your usually sensible friend who suddenly becomes fatuous.

This was realized by Joanna during the next few days. Cyrus caused her serious alarm. On his new and larger air craft he worked with such feverish haste that he forgot to eat or go to bed until reminded of those habits. In the matter of eating he seemed to have lost all memory as to when or how to do it. He poured tea instead of maple syrup on his rice cakes; he recognized no difference in flavor between salt and powdered sugar, marmalade or mustard. Joanna's strawberry shortcake, the very best in the world—and his favorite dish—he regarded with unseeing eyes and forgot to eat it. His reply to nearly all her demands for information on whatever subject, was a smiling "Certainly, of course."

But these were trifles. In his cup of bitterness there still were dregs: and sleepless Fate had not forgotten them. The cup was to be emptied. Late one afternoon, three days after the rebuff to his note, his flowers and himself, he was returning from Springfield alone in his motor. About a mile from Longfields, where the road ran through some woods, he saw a figure on ahead, walking toward the village. It was a female figure, short, slight, erect, and moving with a light and rather jaunty step. It wore a continental hat, a white shirt waist and a white skirt. He recognized this person at first glance, ran his car ahead of her a short distance, then stopped at the side of the road, got out and walked back to meet her. This time there was no elaborate salutation À la Grande Monarch. It was a simple raising of his cap and a tentative, humble minded greeting.

"Good day, Ruth."

"Good day, Cyrus."

She smiled, but the smile brought no sunshine to his heart; a perfunctory smile of duty and good manners, such as might have greeted any other human animal. And as she stood there, against the dark background of the woods, calm, cold, beautiful, and oh! so far away!—he saw aversion in her face and in every line of the rigid little figure.

In a low, uncertain voice he spoke. "So you will never forgive me?"

For a moment she looked away, beyond him, along the road toward the village. "I forgive you a great deal. I forgive your taking me by force and against my will from a welcome refuge where I was looking forward to a peaceful, happy life. But the greater wrong you have done me, the irreparable injury—that is harder to forgive."

"Irreparable injury? What do you mean, Ruth?"

Her eyebrows went up. "Indeed! You really do not know what I mean?"

"On my honor I do not."

"I mean my reputation—the loss of my good name."

"Oh, Ruth! Why you—oh—don't say that!"

Calmly, but with an obvious effort at self control she answered:

"Do you think there is no gossip in Longfields, no comment on my unexpected arrival? Do you think an unmarried woman can travel about the world alone with a young man as I did, and keep her good name?"

"I never thought of it—in that way. On my honor—I did not."

"Do you know of any other respectable young woman of your acquaintance who has done anything like it?"

"But it was all my doing. You couldn't help it. Don't they all know that?"

"No. Why should they know it? Will they believe that you, whom they have known from boyhood, whom they respect and like, would carry me off by force, entirely against my will?" Then with a bitter little laugh: "Oh, no! They are not so simple! And some woman has started a story that we——" Her face became crimson and she covered it for a moment with her hands—"Oh, I can't bear to think of it."

Cyrus closed his eyes. His head drooped. "I never thought of all that. I was stupid. I can see it now. I don't blame you for hating me."

Ruth went on, speaking with nervous haste. "A pleasanter bit of scandal never happened in this village. I could not bear to live here. It would kill me to live here."

"You are not going away!"

"Indeed I am!"

"Where?"

"To Worcester, to earn my living as a nurse."

"Listen, Ruth. Let me do something, no matter what. Let me take you, or send you back to the Convent."

"The Convent! The Convent!" she repeated, and her cheeks reddened. "Do you think the Convent a refuge for women who leave it as I did?—for women who elope with—oh! It's for better women than that! They would never allow me within its gates."

"Then let me atone in some way."

"Indeed! And how?"

"In any way you say—there's all my money—take some of it—all of it. Not as a gift, but in some business way. Let me buy something at a——"

"Clever thought! Regild my reputation with Cyrus Alton's money!"

"Then marry me. Be my wife, only in name. I swear to you—I—will never see you if you wish it. Or—or trouble you in any way. Only let me do something. I had no idea of—of what—of what all this meant to you."

"Your wife!" she laughed a scornful, tragic, broken-hearted little laugh. "Never in this world. Never! Never that!"

She turned and walked away.

He walked beside her. "Please listen. I will do anything you say. I know I deserve it all, but that afternoon at the convent I was not myself. After what happened I was all wrought up. My brain——"

She stopped, turned about and faced him.

"Yes, there is one thing you can do. Leave me now. And let us not be seen together again—ever."

For a brief moment they stood confronting each other. And Cyrus looked deep into the eyes that once had been his guiding stars; the friendly eyes in whose depths his boy heart had sought—and never in vain—encouragement, or consolation. Now, he was finding in their contemptuous beauty only the cold ashes of their childhood devotion.

Then, once more, she turned her back upon him. Erect and with decisive steps, the little figure departed. He stood watching her as she walked—walking out of his life. In his brain and in his heart was a numbing pain—the knowledge that his highest hopes were dead—killed, and by himself!

There and there he made a decision, a decision of vital import to himself. And why not? Who in the world, except Joanna would mourn, or even miss him? If there be such a thing as consolation when hope is dead, he found it in a great resolve.

As he passed her in his car he raised his cap and murmured

"Morituri te salutamus."