eyes frankly to his own.

"I do--I do trust you, but I do not trust myself. Now keep your
promise--I insist on it. Believe me, it is better--wiser for us both."

"Come, then," he said, laying his hand tenderly on her shoulder--it
had grown dark in the teakwood room--"let me tell you a story--a fairy
tale."

She looked at him with a mute appeal in her eyes. Then with a half
moan she said: "I don't want any story; I want your help and never so
much as now. Think of something that will help me! Be quick! No more
dreams--our minutes are too valuable; I must send you away at six."

For some minutes he paced the room in silence. Then, as if a new
thought had entered his mind, he stopped and resumed his professional
manner.

"What about Margaret?" he asked quietly. "Is she fond of the woods?"

"Why--she adores them." She had regained her composure now. "The child
was quite mad about that wretched Long Lake. What a summer we had--I
shudder when I think of it!"

"Did it ever occur to you, my dear friend, that Margaret _needed_ the
woods?" His eyes were searching hers now as if he wanted to read her
inmost thought.

"Needed them--in what way?"

"I mean--er--wouldn't it be better for her if she went to them? A
winter at Saranac--or better still, a longer summer at the camp--if
there is to be a camp. In that case her father would not leave her
alone; there would be less chance, too, of his insisting on your being
there--should you refuse. At least that would be a reason for his
spending as much time as possible in camp with Margaret, and you might
run up occasionally. I'm merely speaking in a purely professional way,
of course," he added.

A sudden pallor crept over her face.

"And you really believe Margaret to be delicate?" she asked in a
trembling voice full of sudden apprehension.

Sperry regained his seat, his manner lapsing into one that he assumed
at serious consultations.

"I am a pretty good diagnostician," he went on, satisfied with the
impression he had made. "Don't think me brutal in what I am going to
say, but I've watched that young daughter of yours lately. New York is
not the place for her."

"You don't mean her lungs?" she asked in a barely audible tone.

The doctor nodded.

"Not seriously, of course, my dear friend--really not that sort of
condition at present--only I deem it wisest to take precautions. I'm
afraid if we wait it will--er--be somewhat difficult later.
Margaret must be taken in