ved. Even Death had been kind to that sweet, pale
girl--she was ready to perform the glorious act of returning Gaston's
own to him, if only she, Joyce, would let go her selfish, ignoble hold.

Now, if she were as noble as Gaston had striven to make her, there was
but one thing to do. Go to that woman up at the bungalow, tell her all
that she did _not_ know. All about the heavy penalty weakness had paid
for the crime committed by another. Tell of the splendid expiation and
the hard-won victory, and then--let go her hold and, in Love's supreme
renunciation, prove her worthiness to what God withheld.

The little living room of Gaston's shack was the battle-ground of
Joyce's soul-conflict that winter day.

Pale and rigid, she crouched in the deep chair, her head buried on the
arm where so often his dear hand had lain.

No; she could not! She would not! Then after a moment--"I must! or in
all the future I shall hate myself." Then she grew calmer, and
instinctively she began to plan about--going. She would leave both fires
ready to light--he might come now at any time.

The letter Billy had brought had not for a moment deceived her. She
counted it now as but one of the links in the chain that was dragging
her away from Gaston.

It was either Jude or her father who had sent the note. Well, it did not
matter, it was the best possible escape that could have been conceived.

Then her plans ran on. She would pack her own pretty things--out of
sight! They must not confuse, or call for pity. There would be no note.
She, that woman at the bungalow would explain, and would tell him that
there could be no reconsideration, for she, Joyce, had gone to
her--husband!

At that point Joyce sprang up, and her eyes blazed feverishly.

No; she was going to do no such thing. She was going to wait just where
she was with folded hands and eager love. When Gaston came he should
decide things. She would not interfere with her future. She would hide
nothing; neither would she disclose anything. Why should she strangle
her own life, with the knowledge she had neither sought nor desired?

The brilliant afternoon sun crept toward the west, and it shone into
the side window and through the screen of splendid fuchsias which
clambered from sill to top of casement.

Gaston might come--now! Perhaps he had failed to locate Jude, and would
return to consider. Well, then, she could put him on Jude's trail.
Gaston, not she, should meet the "woodsman"