at innocent girl to believe that you
were in love with her, and then when she was fool enough to believe you
and let herself become--interested, you left her to run, like a little
puppy, after a rich woman."

"Where did you hear this?" asked Keith, still amazed, but recovering
himself. "What have you heard? Who told you?"

"Not from her." He was blazing with wrath.

"No; but from whom?"

"Never mind. From some one who knew the facts. It is the truth."

"But it is not the truth. I have been in love with Lois Huntington since
I first met her."

"Then why in the name of heaven did you treat her so?"

"How? I did not tell her so because I heard she was in love with some
one else--and engaged to him. God knows I have suffered enough over it.
I would die for her." His expression left no room for doubt as to his
sincerity.

The old man's face gradually relaxed, and presently something that was
almost a smile came into his eyes. He held out his hand.

"I owe you an apology. You are a d----d fool!"

"Can I see her?" asked Keith.

"I don't know that you can see anything. But I could, if I were in your
place. She is on the side verandah at my hospital--where Gates's tavern
stood. She is not much hurt, though it was a close thing. The ball
struck a button and glanced around. She is sitting up. I shall bring her
home as soon as she can be moved."

Keith paused and reflected a moment, then held out his hand.

"Doctor, if I win her will you make our house your home?"

The old man's face softened, and he held out his hand again.

"You will have to come and see me sometimes."

Five minutes later Keith turned up the walk that led to the side
verandah of the building that Dr. Balsam had put up for his sanatorium
on the site of Gates's hotel. The moon was slowly sinking toward the
western mountain-tops, flooding with soft light the valley below, and
touching to silver the fleecy clouds that, shepherded by the gentle
wind, wreathed the highest peaks beyond. How well Keith remembered it
all: the old house with its long verandah; the moonlight flooding it;
the white figure reclining there; and the boy that talked of his ideal
of loveliness and love. She was there now; it seemed to him that she had
been there always, and the rest was merely a dream. He walked up on the
turf, but strode rapidly. He could not wait. As he mounted the steps, he
took off his hat.

"Good evening." He spoke as if she must expect him.

She had n