finished at last!

The work had been his salvation through the long weeks of waiting since
that night upon the beach. Alternately exulting and despairing, he had
painted in a frenzy born of starved desire and memory-haunted love.

Only once had he seen Janet alone since that eventful night, for Billy's
dangerous illness claimed her every thought and hour. But that once,
while Davy sat beside his friend, she had walked with Thornly upon the
sands and had told him her life story. Very simply she had spoken,
watching, meanwhile, the effect upon her listener. He had been startled
and shaken by the recital, and for a time Janet had misunderstood him.

"You must go away and think it over," she had said; "I am not the same
girl, you see!"

"Great heavens, Janet!" Thornly had exclaimed when once he recovered
from his surprise. "Do you think anything can make a difference now?
Why, you are dearer a thousand times in ways you cannot realize, for I
know Mr. Devant better than you do, and I am glad for him."

Janet shook her head. "Cap'n Billy must never know," she whispered.
"There may never be a chance, but in any case he shall never have that
hurt."

"It would be an added joy, little girl," Thornly insisted, but Janet
would not consider it.

"So please go now," she had pleaded finally. "Go and think and think.
Perhaps by and by--who can tell? Just now it must be only my Cap'n
Daddy."

Thus with the courage and patience of her nature the girl had set aside
her own love and yearning; and Thornly took to the Hills and the
unfinished picture of "The Pimpernel."

The glorious face upon the canvas changed and assumed character
according as the master's mood swayed him.

One day it would shine forth with the sweet questioning of joyous
girlhood. Then Thornly, remembering how the question had been answered
on a certain summer day when ignorance died and knowledge was born,
wiped away the expression while his heart grew heavy within him.

Then he would paint her as he recalled her on that black night upon the
beach when, her uplifted face touched by the fleeting rays of the white
moon, she had asked him if he needed her to help him finish his picture.

No! no! He could not paint her so. That was no face for a flower
wreath--and the flowers he must have!

Again he painted her as he had last seen her. The love light shining in
her eyes while courageously she put her joy from her until her duty to
Billy was ended, and her l