n those far-off Australian days that he was
working with all his might to free young Baron from her toils.

He sat in silence till, "Will you tell me something?" whispered
Rosemary, leaning nearer.

He stiffened involuntarily. "I don't know."

"Please try!" she urged softly. "I feel sure you can. Why--why don't you
like Rosa Mundi?"

He looked at her, and his eyes were steely; but they softened by
imperceptible degrees as they met the earnest sweetness of her answering
look. "No, I can't tell you that," he said with decision.

But her look held him. "Is it because you don't think she is very good?"

"I can't tell you," he said again.

Still she looked at him, and again there seemed to be in her eyes that
expression of a child who has seen life without understanding it.
"Perhaps you think I am too young to know good from evil," she said
after a moment. "I am not. I have told you I am older than I look, and
in some things I am older even than my years. Then, too, I belong to
Rosa Mundi. I told you, didn't I? I am her familiar spirit. She has even
called me her angel, or her better self. I know a great many things
about her, and some of them are very sad. May I tell you some of the
things I know?"

He turned his eyes away from her abruptly, with the feeling that he was
resisting some curious magnetism. What was there about this child that
attracted him? He was not a lover of children. Moreover, she was verging
upon womanhood approaching what he grimly termed "the dangerous age."

He filled his pipe deliberately while she waited for his answer, turning
his gaze upon the dazzling line of the horizon.

"You can do as you like," he said at last, and added formally, "May I
smoke?"

She nodded. "Yes, I would like you to. It will keep you from being
bored. I want to tell you about Rosa Mundi, because you do not judge her
fairly. You only know her by repute, and I--I know her heart to heart."

Her voice deepened suddenly, and the man glanced downwards for an
instant, but immediately looked away again. She should tell him what she
would, but by no faintest sign should she imagine that she had succeeded
in arousing his interest. The magnetism was drawing him. He was aware of
the attraction, and with firmness he resisted it. Let her strive as she
would, she would never persuade him to think kindly of Rosa Mundi.

"You think her--bad," said Rosemary, her voice pitched very low. "I
know--oh, I know. Men--some men--are ve