d Marion cried after him, "And
thank you a thousand times."

He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they had
already forgotten him. "Bless you, my children," he said, smiling. As
he was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage toward
it, and as she was apparently going to Carroll's rooms, the actor left
the door open behind him.

Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were both
gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would ask
if it were true.

"It's come at last, Marion," Philip said, with an uncertain voice.

"I could weep," cried Marion. "Philip," she exclaimed, "I would rather
see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would rather
play that part in it than--Oh, Philip," she ended. "I'm so proud of
you!" and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on his
shoulder.

Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers
gently. "I owe it to you, Marion," he said--"all to you."

This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to Miss
Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and good-will, and
with Philip's ring and watch clasped in her hand. They had not heard
her, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and ran
along the passage and down the stairs into the street.

She did not need now to analyze her feelings. They were only too
evident. For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning only
one thing--that she had considered Philip's love so lightly that she had
not felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed it--until
it was too late. And now that it was too late she felt that without it
her life could not go on. She tried to assure herself that only the fact
that she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this thought did not
comfort her--she was not deceived by it, she knew that at last she
cared for him deeply and entirely. In her distress she blamed herself
bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly for having failed
to wait for her. "He might have known that I must love him in time," she
repeated to herself again and again. She was so unhappy that her letter
congratulating Philip on his good fortune in having his comedy accepted
seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his success meant for him only
what it meant to her, he was hurt and grievously disappointed.

He accordingly turned the more readily t