len was all a dreamy gray-green ruggedness of shelving rock with
mossy crevices and ferny nooks. The sunlight filtering through the
young leaves fell about them in a shadow-flecked softness. There was a
crooning song of some bird on its nest, the murmur of waters rippling
down the stony shallows, and a beautiful girl in a dainty pink dress
with her fingers just touching her fluffy masses of hair.

"Why?"

With the question Elinor looked up and saw why. Saw in Victor Burleigh's
golden-brown eyes a look she had never read in eyes before; saw the
whole face, the rugged, manly face lighted with a man's overmastering
love. And the joy of it thrilled her soul.

"Do you know why?"

He leaned toward her ever so little. And Elinor Wream, forgetful of
the Wream family rank, forgetful of her tacit consent to Uncle Joshua's
wishes, forgetful of Vincent Burgess and his heritage of culture,
beautiful Elinor Wream, with her starry eyes, and cheeks of
peach-blossom pink, put out her hands to Victor Burleigh, who took them
eagerly.

"Let me hold them a minute," he said, softly. "There are sixty years to
remember, but only one hour like this."

Then, forgetful of the world and the demands of the world, keeping her
hands in his, he bent and kissed her, as from the foundation of the
world it was his right to do. And Love's Young Dream, not bought
with pain, as mother love is bought, nor wrought out with prayer and
sacrificial service, as love for all humanity is won, came again on this
April day to the little, rock-sheltered glen beside the bright waters
of the Walnut, and briefly there rebuilt in rainbow hues the old, old
paradise of joy for these two alone.

And into the new Eden came the new serpent also for to destroy. Before
Elinor and Victor was the sunlit valley. Behind them was the cave's
mouth with its shadowy gloom deepening back to dense darkness. And
creeping stealthily through that blackness, like a serpent warming its
venom and writhing slowly toward the light, a human form was slowly,
stealthily crawling outward, with head upreared and cruel eyes alert.
The brutal face was void of pity, as if the conscience behind it had
long been bound and gagged to human sympathy.

While Burleigh was speaking the caveman had reached the doorway and
reared up just beside it in the shadow. Clutching a brutal-looking club
in his hairy, rough hand, he stood listening to the story of the murder
that had left Victor fatherless. The fac