guished artist, not active, but acknowledged and
accomplished, he was entitled to a studio life. He and Suzanne could
meet there. Nothing would be thought of it. Why had she insisted on
telling her mother? It could all have been done without that. There was
another peculiar ideal of hers, her determination to tell the truth
under all circumstances. And yet she had really not told it. She had
deceived her mother a long time about him simply by saying nothing. Was
this some untoward trick of fate's, merely devised to harm him? Surely
not. And yet Suzanne's headstrong determination seemed almost a fatal
mistake now. He sat down brooding over it. Was this a terrific blunder?
Would he be sorry? All his life was in the balance. Should he turn back?

No! No! No! Never! It was not to be. He must go on. He must! He must! So
he brooded.

The next of Mrs. Dale's resources was not quite so unavailing as the
others, though it was almost so. She had sent for Dr. Latson Woolley,
her family physician--an old school practitioner of great repute, of
rigid honor and rather Christian principles himself, but also of a wide
intellectual and moral discernment, so far as others were concerned.

"Well, Mrs. Dale," he observed, when he was ushered into her presence in
the library on the ground floor, and extending his hand cordially,
though wearily, "what can I do for you this morning?"

"Oh, Dr. Woolley," she began directly, "I am in so much trouble. It
isn't a case of sickness. I wish it were. It is something so much worse.
I have sent for you because I know I can rely on your judgment and
sympathy. It concerns my daughter, Suzanne."

"Yes, yes," he grunted, in a rather crusty voice, for his vocal cords
were old, and his eyes looked out from under shaggy, gray eyebrows which
somehow bespoke a world of silent observation. "What's the matter with
her? What has she done now that she ought not to do?"

"Oh, doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Dale nervously, for the experiences of the
last few days had almost completely dispelled her normal composure, "I
don't know how to tell you, really. I don't know how to begin. Suzanne,
my dear precious Suzanne, in whom I have placed so much faith and
reliance has, has----"

"Well, tell me," interrupted Dr. Woolley laconically.

When she had told him the whole story, and answered some of his incisive
questions, he said:

"Well, I am thinking you have a good deal to be grateful for. She might
have yielded withou