at the relief of speech was. "Even up in Hetty's home
town, Plumas, they think so. I wrote home that Hetty had left me, and
they drew their own conclusions. It was natural enough; she was never
strong. She was always restless and unhappy, wanted to go on the stage.
She did go on the stage, you know; her mother advised it, and she--just
left me. We were in New York, then; Bill was a little shaver; I was
having a hard time with a new job. It was an awful time! After a few
months I brought Bill back here--he wasn't very well--and then I found
that everyone thought Hetty was dead. Then her mother wrote me, and
said that Hetty had taken a stage-name, and begged me to let people go
on thinking she was dead, and, more for the kid's sake than Hetty's, I
let things stand. But Hetty's in California now; she and her mother
live in San Francisco; she is still studying singing, I believe. She
gets the rent from two flats I have there. But she never writes. And
that," he finished grimly, "is the last chapter of my history."

Sidney still stood close to him, earnest, fragrant, lovely, in her
white gown. And even above the troubled tumult of his thoughts Barry
had time to think how honest, how unaffected she was, to stand so,
making no attempt to disguise the confusion in her own mind. For a long
time there was no sound but the vague stir of the night about them, the
faint breath of some wandering breeze, the rustling flight of some
small animal in the dark, the far-hushed, village sounds.

"Thank you, Barry," Sidney said at length. "I'm sorry. I am glad you
told me. Good-night."

"Good-night," he said almost inaudibly. He ran down the steps and
plunged into the dark avenue without a backward look. Sidney turned
slowly, and slowly entered the dimly lighted hall, and shut the door.

CHAPTER XI

"Come down here--we're down by the river!" called Mrs. Burgoyne, from
the shade of the river bank, where she and Mrs. Lloyd were busy with
their sewing. "The American History section is entertaining the club."

"You look studious!" laughed Mrs. Brown, coming across the grass, to
put the Brown baby upon his own sturdy legs from her tired arms, and
sink into a deep lawn chair. The June afternoon was warm, but it was
delightfully cool by the water. "Is that the club?" she asked, waving
toward the group of children who were wading and splashing in the
shallows of the loitering river.

"That's the American History Club," responded Mrs. Bu