instance--because their self respect won't let them
stop, win or lose. But now and then there happens one who keeps on
trying only because there is one other person, at least, who may be the
gladder for his success. I don't expect you to understand; I know it
will sound small and cowardly to you. . . . It's too lonesome living,
Steve, when there's no one who cares whether you live or not!"

"That does not fit your case," Steve objected instantly, "when your
danger or your safety keeps a woman watching, white-faced with terror
through the night, for your return."

Garry propped himself upon one elbow, the better to see the speaker's
countenance.

"My safety?" he repeated, blankly. "My return?" And then, wanly
grateful: "You are not the sort of man who lies convincingly, Steve."

And then Stephen O'Mara let him have it--all the story which had lain
so many days in his heart. There were times when Garry went even paler
during the short recital; times when everything else was submerged by
the incredulity that flooded his face. But before Steve had finished
the last trace of doubt was gone. Before the end came Garry had bowed
his head, this time in flushed, self-conscious wonder which
transfigured him.

"Miriam Burrell!" he breathed. "Proud, intolerant----"

His head came up. The next instant he voiced the words which Steve
most wanted to hear.

"You shouldn't have told me this," said he. "You had no right,
unless----"

Steve laughed at him.

"God bless you, boy," he exclaimed. "I asked her if I might. Why,
don't you understand that she meant to, herself, if I didn't? You see,
she is--far, far braver than you are, Garry."

Garry lifted his hands and hid his face.

So quietly that his exit made no sound Steve slipped to his feet and
passed outside. It had stopped raining; the hardwood ridges, touched
by frost, were flaming streaks of color against the rainwashed
evergreens, when he picked his way down to the river and found a dry
stone for a seat. An hour and more he sat there, while his thoughts
went back over the trail of the years--the trail which had led him from
that cabin to a pair of violet eyes and lips that arched like a boy's.

Steve let his mind turn again, unreservedly, to his own problem that
morning; he tried to face, sure-eyed, the road which still stretched
ahead. He did not know that Garrett Devereau, the debonaire, the
cynical, the world-weary and world-wise, had broken down