t John Milton was following the animated lips and
eyes of the fair speaker rather than her story. Perhaps that was the
reason why he said, "May he not have been a disappointed man?"

"I don't understand," she said simply.

"Perhaps," said John Milton with a boyish blush, "you may have
unconsciously raised hopes in his heart--and"--

"I should hardly attempt to interest a chronicler of adventure like you
in such a very commonplace, every-day style of romance," she said,
with a little impatience, "even if my vanity compelled me to make such
confidences to a stranger. No,--it was nothing quite as vulgar as that.
And," she added quickly, with a playfully amused smile as she saw the
young fellow's evident distress, "I should have probably heard from him
again. Those stories always end in that way."

"And you think?"--said John Milton.

"I think," said Mrs. Ashwood slowly, "that he actually did commit
suicide--or effaced himself in some way, just as firmly as I believe he
might have been saved by judicious treatment. Otherwise we should have
heard from him. You'll say that's only a woman's reasoning--but I think
our perceptions are often instinctive, and I knew his character."

Still following the play of her delicate features into a romance of his
own weaving, the imaginative young reporter who had seen so much from
the heights of Russian Hill said earnestly, "Then I have your permission
to use this material at any future time?"

"Yes," said the lady smilingly.

"And you will not mind if I should take some liberties with the text?"

"I must of course leave something to your artistic taste. But you will
let me see it?"

There were voices outside now, breaking the silence of the veranda.
They had been so preoccupied as not to notice the arrival of a horseman.
Steps came along the passage; the landlord returned. Mrs. Ashwood turned
quickly towards him.

"Mr. Grant, of your party, ma'am, to fetch you."

She saw an unmistakable change in her young friend's mobile face. "I
will be ready in a moment," she said to the landlord. Then, turning
to John Milton, the arch-hypocrite said sweetly: "My brother must have
known instinctively that I was in good hands, as he didn't come. But I
am sorry, for I should have so liked to introduce him to you--although
by the way," with a bright smile, "I don't think you have yet told me
your name. I know I couldn't have FORGOTTEN it."

"Harcourt," said John Milton, with a half-embarras