let was quite unfamiliar to Stanton, but it rhymed sickeningly
through his brain all night long like the consciousness of an
over-drawn bank account.

It was the very next morning after this that all the Boston papers
flaunted Cornelia's aristocratic young portrait on their front pages
with the striking, large-type announcement that "One of Boston's
Fairest Debutantes Makes a Daring Rescue in Florida waters. Hotel Cook
Capsized from Row Boat Owes His Life to the Pluck and Endurance--etc.,
etc."

With a great sob in his throat and every pulse pounding, Stanton lay
and read the infinite details of the really splendid story; a group of
young girls dallying on the Pier; a shrill cry from the bay; the
sudden panic-stricken helplessness of the spectators, and then with
equal suddenness the plunge of a single, feminine figure into the
water; the long hard swim; the furious struggle; the final victory.
Stingingly, as though it had been fairly branded into his eyes, he
saw the vision of Cornelia's heroic young face battling above the
horrible, dragging-down depths of the bay. The bravery, the risk, the
ghastly chances of a less fortunate ending, sent shiver after shiver
through his already tortured senses. All the loving thoughts in his
nature fairly leaped to do tribute to Cornelia. "Yes!" he reasoned,
"Cornelia was made like that! No matter what the cost to herself--no
matter what was the price--Cornelia would never, never fail to do her
_duty_!" When he thought of the weary, lagging, riskful weeks that
were still to ensue before he should actually see Cornelia again, he
felt as though he should go utterly mad. The letter that he wrote to
Cornelia that night was like a letter written in a man's own
heart-blood. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the pen.

Cornelia did not like the letter. She said so frankly. The letter did
not seem to her quite "nice." "Certainly," she attested, "it was not
exactly the sort of letter that one would like to show one's mother."
Then, in a palpably conscientious effort to be kind as well as just,
she began to prattle inkily again about the pleasant, warm, sunny
weather. Her only comment on saving the drowning man was the mere
phrase that she was very glad that she had learned to be a good
swimmer. Never indeed since her absence had she spoken of missing
Stanton. Not even now, after what was inevitably a heart-racking
adventure, did she yield her lover one single iota of the info