ed out of existence.

Mr. Flint's feelings were, in a sense, akin to those of a traveller by
sea who wakens out of a sound sleep in his cabin, with peculiar and
unpleasant sensations, which he gradually discovers are due to cold
water, and he realizes that the boat on which he is travelling is
sinking.

The Honourable Hilary, with his bag, was halfway to the door, when Mr.
Flint crossed the room in three strides and seized him by the arm.

"Hold on, Vane," he said, speaking with some difficulty; "I'm--I'm a
little upset this morning, and my temper got the best of me. You and I
have been good friends for too many years for us to part this way. Sit
down a minute, for God's sake, and let's cool off. I didn't intend to say
what I did. I apologize."

Mr. Flint dropped his counsel's arm, and pulled out a handkerchief, and
mopped his face. "Sit down, Hilary," he said.

The Honourable Hilary's tight lips trembled. Only three or four times in
their long friendship had the president made use of his first name.

"You wouldn't leave me in the lurch now, Hilary," Mr. Flint continued,
"when all this nonsense is in the air? Think of the effect such an
announcement would have! Everybody knows and respects you, and we can't
do without your advice and counsel. But I won't put it on that ground.
I'd never forgive myself, as long as I lived, if I lost one of my oldest
and most valued personal friends in this way."

The Honourable Hilary looked at Mr. Flint, and sat down. He began to cut
a piece of Honey Dew, but his hand shook. It was difficult, as we know,
for him to give expression to his feelings.

"All right," he said.

Half an hour later Victoria, from under the awning of the little balcony
in front of her mother's sitting room, saw her father come out bareheaded
into the sun and escort the Honourable Hilary Vane to his buggy. This was
an unwonted proceeding.

Victoria loved to sit in that balcony, a book lying neglected in her lap,
listening to the summer sounds: the tinkle of distant cattle bells, the
bass note of a hurrying bee, the strangely compelling song of the
hermit-thrush, which made her breathe quickly; the summer wind, stirring
wantonly, was prodigal with perfumes gathered from the pines and the
sweet June clover in the fields and the banks of flowers; in the
distance, across the gentle foreground of the hills, Sawanec beckoned
--did Victoria but raise her eyes!--to a land of enchantment.

The appearance of he