sure thing that I am going to get
well. And if what I feel for you is worth anything, it ought to mean
that I must put your happiness--first. And that's why I want to make the
picture for the--happy ending."

Her hand went out to him. "It is a beautiful thing for you to do. But I
am not sure that there will be a--happy ending."

"Why not?"

She could not tell him. She could not tell--that between her and her
thought of Randy was the barrier of all that George Dalton had meant to
her.

"If you paint the picture," she evaded, "you must finish it at
Huntersfield. Why can't you and Louise come down this winter? It would
be heavenly."

"It would be Heaven for me. Do you mean it, Becky?"

She did mean it, and she told him so.

"I shall paint you," he planned, "as a little white slip of a girl, with
pearls about your neck, and dreams in your eyes, and back of you a flight
of shadowy swans----"

They rose and walked on. "I thought you were to be with the Admiral in
Boston this winter."

"I stay until Thanksgiving. I always go back to Huntersfield for
Christmas."

After that it was decided that she should sit for him each morning. They
did not speak again of Randy. There had been something in Becky's manner
which kept Archibald from saying more.

When they reached the lighthouse, the wind was blowing strongly. Before
them was the sweep of the Nantucket Shoals--not a ship in sight, not a
line of smoke, the vast emptiness of heaving waters.

Becky stood at the edge of the bluff, her red cape billowing out into a
scarlet banner, her hair streaming back from her face, the velvet tam
flattened by the force of the wind.

Archibald glanced at her. "Are you cold?"

"No, I love it."

He was chilled to the bone, yet there she stood, warm with life, bright
with beating blood----

"What a beastly lot of tumbling water," he said with sudden overmastering
irritation. "Let's get away from it, Becky. Let's get away."

Going back they took the road which led across the moor. The clear day
gave to the low hills the Persian carpet coloring which Cope had
despaired of painting. Becky, in her red cape, was almost lost against
the brilliant background.

But she was not the only one who challenged nature. For as she and
Archibald approached the outskirts of the town, they discerned, at some
distance, at the top of a slight eminence, two figures--a man and a
woman. The woman was dancing, with waving arms and