ede
with the wondrous generosity of a woman's heart. But he could not do
it.

In the end, out of sheer pity that overcame the strange delight he had
in torturing her, he desisted in his appeals and demands and subtle
arguments. The long strain left him spent. And with the sudden
let-down of his energy, the surrender to her stronger will, he fell
prey at once to the sadness that more and more was encompassing him.
He felt an old and broken man.

To this sudden change in Lane Mel responded with mute anxiety and
fear. The alteration of his spirit stunned her. As he bade her
good-bye she clung to him.

"Daren, forgive me," she implored. "You don't understand.... Oh, it's
hard."

"Never mind, Mel. I guess it was just one of my dreams. Don't cry....
Good-bye."

"But you'll come again?" she entreated, almost wildly.

Lane shook his head. He did not trust himself to look at her then.

"Daren, you can't mean that," she cried. "It's too late for me.
I--I--Oh! You.... To uplift me--then to cast me down! Daren, come
back."

In his heart he did not deny that cry of hers. He knew he would come
back, knew it with stinging shame, but he could not tell her. It had
all turned out so differently from what he had dreamed. If he had not
loved her he would not have felt defeat. To have made her his wife
would have been to protect her, to possess her even after he was
dead.

At the last she let him go. He felt her watching him, and he carried
her lingering clasp away with him, to burn and to thrill and to haunt,
and yet to comfort him in lonely hours.

But the next day the old spirit resurged anew, and unreconciled to
defeat, he turned to what was left him. Foolish and futile hopes! To
bank on the single grain of good in his wayward sister's heart! To
trust the might of his spirit--to beat down the influence of an
intolerant and depraved young millionaire--verily he was mad. Yet he
believed. And as a final resort he held death in his hand. Richard
Swann swaggered by Lane that night in the billiard room of the
Bradford Inn and stared sneeringly at him.

"I've got a date," he gayly said to his sycophantic friends, in a tone
that would reach Lane's ears.

The summer night came when Lane drove a hired car out the river road,
keeping ever in sight a red light in front of him. He broke the law
and endangered his life by traveling with darkened lamps.

There was a crescent moon, clear and exquisitely delicate in the
darkening blu