Mothereen led them over the house, which was built in bungalow style, all on one floor, saying to Garth, "Do you remember this? Do you remember that?" and pointing out to Marise details upon which she could hang some anecdote of "Johnny."

"But I've saved the best for the last," she announced. "Now I'm going to take ye to your 'suite,' as ZÉ—as it's fashionable to call it. Ye know, Johnny, the spare bedroom with the bath openin' out? Well, I've added onto it the little sewin'-room, done up the best I could in a hurry. And if that doesn't make a 'suite,' what does? There's no door from one room into the other, that's the trouble! I'd a' had one cut if there'd been time, but there wasn't. Still, it's the next room, and the two of ye will have the whole use of it, so I hope the dear gurrl will excuse the deficiencies."

"I'm sure there won't be any deficiencies!" exclaimed Marise graciously. Garth was right to love his "Mothereen"! She was certainly an adorable woman, and too delicious when she rolled out a long word. The girl was pleased to hear that there was no door between her room and Garth's. Not that he was likely to annoy her. But—who could tell if he would not be different here in his own home, where everyone made a hero of him, from what he had seemed in her New York? It was just as well that she was to be on the safe side.

"What a pretty room!" she cried out, as, with a proud housewifely look, Mothereen flung open a door. "Why, it's lovely! Is this mine?"

"Of course it's yours, darlin'—yours and Johnny's," said Mothereen, beaming with pleasure at such praise. "Come and look out of the window, ducky. John knows what's there, but 'twill be a surprise for you."

Still clasped by the plump arm, Marise crossed the polished floor, which was spread with beautiful Indian rugs. The walls were white, and hung with a few good pictures of desert scenery and strange Indian mesas. The furniture was simple, but interesting: made of eucalyptus wood, pink as faded rose-leaves against its white background; and everywhere were bowls of curious Egyptian-looking Indian pottery, filled with roses. The one immense window took up nearly all one end of the room, and opened Spanish fashion upon a garden-court with a fountain, a marble bench, and a number of small orange trees grouped together to shade the seat.

"'Twas Johnny's idea," Mothereen explained, when Marise had complimented the court. "The next room looks on it, too. And now ye'd both better come and see what I've done with that same!"

She led the way out again, and opened the door of an adjoining room. "I do hope ye'll like it too!" she said. "It's yer own little sittin'-room, and you two turtle-doves can have yer breakfast here by yerselves if ye like."

With all her goodwill towards "Mothereen," Marise could not repress a slight gasp, or a stiffening of the supple young figure belted by the kind woman's arm; for her first glimpse of the room gave her an electric shock. The room was a "sittin'-room," and nothing else.

"Is anything wrong, darlin'?" anxiously asked Mothereen.

Marise hesitated. Involuntarily she glanced over her shoulder at Garth, who was close behind. She met his eyes, which implored hers.

"Oh no, indeed!" the girl protested. "It's—it's charming. I was thinking of something else for an instant."

"Ye're sure everything's all right?" Mothereen persisted, her pretty brows puckered.

"Quite sure. Thank you so much!"

"Nothing ye'd like to have me change?"

"Nothing at all," Marise consoled her, in a strained tone.

"Well then, I'm glad, and I'll leave ye to yerselves for a while. Come out to me when ye feel like it and not before—one or both. And ye'll be welcome as the flowers in May."

She kissed Marise and snuggled her cheek, rosy and fresh as an apple, against the arm of her adopted son. Then she was gone with a parting smile, and Garth shut the door.

"That was mighty fine behaviour of yours, and I thank you with all my heart," he said to Marise.

She had dropped into a chair, tremulous about the knees. "You needn't thank me," she answered. "What I did was for her."

"I know. That's why I thank you," said Garth. "I think a lot more about Mothereen's feelings than I do my own. Mine are case-hardened—hers aren't, and never could be. You see, she's fond of me."

"I do see! So is everybody else—here, it seems."

"They're warm-hearted folks out in the West. They love to make a noise. I hope you weren't disgusted."

"No, I liked them," said Marise. "They seemed so sincere. And Mrs. Mooney is the dearest little woman. I'd have my tongue cut out—almost!—rather than she should be sad. But now the question is, what's to be done? I tried to help you. You must help me."

"I will," Garth assured her. "It's going to be all right."

"But how—without hurting her?" Marise looked round the room. "You can't sleep on that little sofa."

"I can sleep on the floor rolled up in a blanket. That would have seemed a soft billet in France."

"You'd be wretchedly uncomfortable. And how would you bathe?"

"I guess you don't need to worry yourself about that detail. I'll manage the business in one way or other."

"That sounds vague! What's become of the room which used to be yours in this house, before you went to the war?"

"Your bedroom next door is the one. The only spare room we had in those days was this, where we're sitting now. We never had any people come to stay, though, so Mothereen turned it into a sewing-room."

"I see! And you can't slip out to an hotel or anywhere, because every human being in town knows you."

"No, I can't slip out. But—well, we are married!"

Marise started, and stared. Her eyes opened wide. She looked ready to spring up and run away.

"All I was going to say is this," Garth went on. "There's a big screen or two in your room, I noticed. Perhaps, as you're kind enough not to want me to go unwashed, you'd stretch a point, and let me walk through to the bath with a couple of screens in position. We needn't stay more than two days and nights, the way things have turned out. Mothereen will be disappointed, but her feelings won't be hurt because I shall take steps to get a wire from a friend of mine at the Grand Canyon. The friend will tell me that I'm needed at once on a matter of importance. That'll do the trick. And Mothereen can make up for lost time by visiting me—us, at Vision House."

"Vision House!"

"Yes, I named it that. You wouldn't be interested in the reason why."

Marise felt that she would be interested, but didn't care to say so.

"You wouldn't mind her coming to the Canyon?" he asked.

"Of course not! I should be delighted. That is, if I were there."

"You would be there."

"I mightn't. You see—things will change. Mums will come, and—and—I shall go away—with her. You know what will happen."

"Who knows anything about the future? But let it take care of itself. There's plenty to think of in the present, isn't there?"

"Too much!"

"Not for me. Can you bring yourself to agree to that plan I proposed? The screen——"

"Oh, I suppose it's the only thing to do! I've played bedroom scenes on the stage, and this——"

"Very well. That's settled, then."

"Ye-es. Except—about your belongings. I suppose Mrs. Mooney is sure to run in now and then to see how—we—are getting on."

"I'm afraid she will. Unless we tell her to stay out."

"We won't do that! I suppose your toilet things will have to be in my room—on that tallboy with the mirror which Mrs. Mooney evidently meant for them."

"If you can bear the contamination!"

Marise glanced at him. But he did not speak the words bitterly. He was faintly smiling, though it was not precisely a gay smile. She wanted to smile back, but feared to begin again with "smiling terms," so she replied gravely that it could be quite well arranged. "I'll explain—enough—to CÉline, and she'll unpack for you," the girl suggested.

"That's a kind thought!" said Garth. And then, as if satisfied with the way in which troublesome matters had shaped themselves, he got up. "I expect you'd like to have your maid in now, to help you," he suggested. "You can ring, and I'll go and have a chin with Mothereen."

CÉline was lodged at a distance, but there was a bell communicating with her quarters. She came, in an excited mood.

"But it is a house of charm, Madame!" she exclaimed. (It had ceased to seem strange, now, being "Madamed" by CÉline.) "Monsieur Garth—the two domestics who have for him an adoration, say he built it. And he has another place larger and more beautiful, where we go. It is, then, that Monsieur is rich."

Marise did not answer. But she would have given something to do so, out of her own knowledge. Garth and all his circumstances, and surroundings, were becoming actually mysterious to her. She was puzzled at every turn.

"You mustn't gossip with the servants here, CÉline," she said.

"But no, naturally not, Madame!" protested the maid. "I will listen to all they say, and speak nothing in return. So Madame wishes the effects of Monsieur placed in this room? Parfaitement! It shall be done."

Luncheon was outwardly a happy meal. Mothereen so radiated joy in her adored one's return that Marise was infected with her gaiety of spirit. After all, life was only one adventure after another, and this was an adventure like the rest. Well, not exactly like the rest! But at least, it was not dull!

All the afternoon there were callers, and Mothereen broke it to the bride and bridegroom that, without being disagreeable, she could not avoid inviting a "few folks to dinner, and some to drop in later." "The dinner ones are our grand people," she explained to Marise, "the Mayor and his wife, and a son who is a Colonel. He has married a French wife. She is very stylish, and she'll have on her best clothes to-night. They say she's got grand jewels. But sure, they won't hold a candle to yours."

"I haven't brought many with me, I'm sorry to say," replied Marise.

Mothereen's face fell for an instant, then brightened. "Oh, I clean forgot," she exclaimed. "The beautiful things I have waitin' fur ye. They'll be on yer dressin'-table to-night. Now, not a wurrud, darlin'! Ask me no questions, I'll tell ye no lies. This is a secret."

Intrigued, Marise became impatient to go to her room, but could not escape there till it was time to dress. CÉline was already on the spot, preparing her mistress's dress for the evening: bridal white frock, scintillating with crystal; little slippers, silk stockings, a petticoat of rose-embroidered chiffon and lace.

But Marise did not cast a glance at these things. She walked straight to the dressing-table, and couldn't help giving a little squeak. For there lay the missing jewel-cases—those she had thrown into the corridor at the Plaza Hotel on her wedding night—and had never seen since.