ed his gaze toward the girl in the gallery.

There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had been a victor.
His face was white, and after his eyes had held hers for a long time
he gave her a wistful little smile which expressed regret, sorrow,
renunciation, rather than pride. She no longer wondered at the interest
she felt in this man; she knew that she loved him. She was able to own
that truth to herself, and to view it calmly because she had made her
promise to Richard Dodd and was resolved to keep it. That determination
made of this love a precious possession that she could put away for ever
out of the sight of all the world. Such a poor, meager, little story of
love it was! A few meetings--a hand-touch--a word or two.

There in that packed forum had been their only real love-making. Over
the heads of angry men they had told each other with their eyes. There
was no misunderstanding on the part of either. Both knew the truth.

And yet, after he had told her, this enigma of a man bowed his head and
edged his way to the door, moving unobtrusively through the press of
humanity, taking advantage of the confusion which marked the entrance of
Archer Converse.

Impulse goaded Kate Kilgour at that moment. She did not reason or
reflect. Something in the air of this man told her that sorrow instead
of triumph was dominating him; his whole demeanor had said "Farewell"
when he had turned from her. The instinct of the woman who loves and
longs to comfort the object of that affection drove her out of the hall,
and she followed him--ashamed, marveling at herself, searching her soul
for words with which to excuse her madness, should he turn and behold
her.

But the autumn dusk was early and she was grateful because it shrouded
her.

Farr, leaving the din of the convention, going forth alone, looked more
like the vanquished than the victor. He walked slowly, his head was
lowered, and he turned off the Boulevard at once, seeking deserted
streets which led him down toward the big mills.

Their myriad lights shone from dusty windows, row upon row, and the
staccato chatter of the looms sounded ceaselessly.

Farr climbed the fence where old Etienne was everlastingly raking. The
young man had not seen much of the old rack-tender for some weeks, and
now he greeted Etienne rather curtly as he passed on his way to the
tree. But Etienne seemed to understand.

"Ah, I will not talk, m'sieu'. I will not bodder you. I hear how mu