d, in his decided way. "You and I, all through
our lives, will each have to defer to the wishes of the other. If I knew
that a thing worried you greatly I am sure I should refrain from doing
it--I should like to know that you felt that way about me--Bettina."

Something of the old tender quality had crept into his voice. Once more
they were alone in the shadowy room--but outside now was the darkness of
the night instead of the darkness of the storm. Perhaps some memory of
her first impulsive response to his wooing came to him as he took both
of her hands in his. "There's some barrier between us of late," he said.
"I'm a plain blunt man, and I don't know what I may have said or done.
Have I hurt you in any way, child?"

Here was Fate bringing opportunity to her. This was the moment for
revelation, confession.

But she could not tell him.

She stood before him with bent head.

"You haven't hurt me, but there is something I should like to say to
you. May I write it--Anthony?"

He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him.

"Are you afraid of me--dear?"

"Oh, no----"

"Then tell me now----"

"Please--no."

For a moment he studied her drooping face, then he patted her on the
cheek. "Write it if you must--but you're making me feel like an awful
bear, Bettina."

He sighed and turned away.

She put out her hand as if to stop him, but drew it back. Then she
followed him into the hall, and stood watching him, with the light from
the old lantern again making a halo of her fair hair. But this time she
did not go down to him in the darkness. The spell was upon her of a pair
of mocking eyes, and of a voice which had sung with her celestial
harmonies.

CHAPTER XIX

HER FATHER'S RING

It was late the next night before Bettina found time to write a letter
to Anthony. The town clock had struck ten, and Miss Matthews was asleep
in the inner room. As Bettina settled herself at her desk there came
through the open window the fragrance of the sea--the night was very
still; she could hear across the harbor the beat of the music in the
yacht club ballroom, and there was the tinkle of a mandolin on some
anchored boat.

She found it difficult to put on paper the things which she decided must
be said. Striving to explain she tore up sheet after sheet, then,
growing restless at her repeated failure, she rose from her desk and
crossed the room to the cabinet in the corner. In one of the drawers was
a