e. Now, after all these years--years when you seemed to have
forgotten my very existence and the thing which you had once called
love--I return to America, praised and honored by those who in the old
days had treated me so lightly, you among the rest."

"That's not true," broke in Gordon. "I always loved you."

"But we parted," continued Mrs. Dainton, bitterly. "And if I had
returned, needing your help instead of being able to reject all that you
can give, would you have come to me again?"

"You know I should have."

"No, Sanford, we seek only that which is beyond our reach," she said
softly, laying her hand on his arm. "The candle has burned out. Do not
try to relight it. I have been only an incident in your life--"

"That's not true."

"Don't you suppose I know about the others?"

"They were nothing to me. It was you, always you."

"One who has been through the mill doesn't care to be crushed by the
mill-stones a second time. Take my advice, Sanford--return to New York,
seek out some nice young girl, and marry her."

"Never!"

"Really!" Mrs. Dainton laughed lightly as she ran down the steps and was
helped into the car by the vigilant Victor. "Ta-ta, Sanford, I'll see
you to-morrow, or the day after." And in another moment the big, red
touring-car had whirled away, leaving upon the steps the solitary figure
of a tall, dark, good-looking chap of uncertain age, who clenched his
hands tightly, then turned suddenly as a bell-boy passed along the
veranda.

"Boy!"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell my valet to pack up at once. I'm leaving for New York to-night."

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," closing a responsive palm. "Thank you,
sir."

CHAPTER III

INTRODUCING MARTHA FARNUM

In the cosmopolitan atmosphere of any famous health resort, strangely
contrasting types are often found. Amid the vain, the foolish, the
inebriates and the idle who flocked to the Springs for amusement and
diversion, there were a few who really came to seek health. For three
months, the gay passers-by on the shaded walks near the hotel had
noticed one such, an elderly lady, feeble, gray-haired, evidently
recovering from a severe illness, who invariably occupied a wheel-chair,
the motive power for which was furnished by a most attractive young girl
always clad in simple black. The girl was about nineteen, slender,
graceful, with the clear and partly sunburnt complexion which comes
from life spent much in the open air. Her eyes and hair wer