on, something she was trying to keep back.

"You--you didn't find her?" she asked.

"No." His voice was tired and a little old. "Do you think I shall ever
find her?"

"Not as you have expected," she answered quietly. "She will never come
like that." She seemed to be making an effort. "You--you would give a
great deal to have her back, Mr. Holt?"

Her question was childish in its absurdity, and she was like a child
looking at him as she did in this moment. He forced a smile to his lips
and nodded.

"Of course. Everything I possess."

"You--you--loved her--"

Her voice trembled. It was odd she should ask these questions. But the
probing did not sting him; it was not a woman's curiosity that inspired
them, and the comforting softness in her voice did him good. He had not
realized before how much he wanted to answer that question, not only for
himself, but for someone else--aloud.

"Yes, I did."

The confession almost startled him. It seemed an amazing confidence to
be making under any circumstances, and especially upon such brief
acquaintance. But he said no more, though in Ellen McCormick's face and
eyes was a tremulous expectancy. He stepped into the little room which
had been his sleeping place, and returned with his dunnage-sack. Out of
this he took the bag in which were Mary Standish's belongings, and gave
it to Sandy's wife. It was a matter of business now, and he tried to
speak in a businesslike way.

"Her things are inside. I got them in her cabin. If you find her, after
I am gone, you will need them. You understand, of course. And if you
don't find her, keep them for me. I shall return some day." It seemed
hard for him to give his simple instructions. He went on: "I don't think
I shall stay any longer, but I will leave a certified check at Cordova,
and it will be turned over to your husband when she is found. And if you
do find her, you will look after her yourself, won't you, Mrs.
McCormick?"

Ellen McCormick choked a little as she answered him, promising to do
what he asked. He would always remember her as a sympathetic little
thing, and half an hour later, after he had explained everything to
Sandy, he wished her happiness when he took her hand in saying good-by.
Her hand was trembling. He wondered at it and said something to Sandy
about the priceless value of a happiness such as his, as they went down
to the beach.

The velvety darkness of the sky was athrob with the heart-beat of stars,
when