f anything else but my loss fled
from me, and I gave a little moan.

I felt Dicky's arm which was around my shoulders shrink away
instinctively, then tighten again. He turned my face against his
shoulder, and, gathering me in his arms, lifted me from the couch.

"Oh, Dicky, I am sure I can walk," I protested faintly.

He stopped and looked at me fixedly.

"Don't you want my arms around you?" he asked, and there was that in
his voice which made me answer hastily:

"Of course I do, but I am afraid I am too heavy."

"Let me be the judge of that," he returned sternly, and forthwith
carried me up the stairs, down the hall, and laid me on the bed in my
own room.

"Now you must get that wet gown off," he said practically. "Katie
emptied nearly a gallon of water over you in her fright."

He smiled constrainedly, and I made a brave effort to return the
smile, but I could not accomplish it. Indeed, I was glad to be able to
keep back the tears, which I knew instinctively would hurt him.

He undressed me as tenderly as a woman could have done, and, wrapping
a warm bathrobe over my nightdress, for I was shivering as if from
a chill, tucked me in between the blankets of my bed. Then he drew a
chair to the bedside and sat down.

"Are you sure you are all right now?" he asked. "Your color is coming
back."

"Perfectly sure," I returned, "and I am so sorry to have made you so
much trouble."

"Don't say that," he returned, a trifle sharply. "It is so
meaningless. Try to sleep a little, can't you?"

"Not yet, Dicky," I returned. "I am feeling much better, however. Of
course, the shock was terrible at first, for, as you know, Jack was
the only brother I ever knew. But I am all right now and I want you to
tell me how you learned the news."

"Mrs. Stewart telephoned to me," he said. "It seems your cousin gave
her as the 'next of kin,' to be notified in case of his death, and
she received the notice this morning. There was nothing but the usual
official notification."

I caught my breath, stifling the moan that rose to my lips. Somewhere
in France lay buried the tenderest heart, the manliest man God ever
put into the world. And I had sent him to his death. Despite the
comforting assurance Jack had written me, just before his departure
for France, that his discovery of my marriage, with the consequent
blasting of the hope he had cherished for years, had not been the
cause of his sailing, I knew he would never have left me if