h a
smile of parental pride upon her face, Mollie was on the porch to say
good-bye. At the last moment she approached and kissed her daughter on
the cheek. Not in months before had the mother done such a thing as
that; and despite herself, as she walked toward the waiting carriage,
there came to the girl the thought of another historic kiss, and of a
Judas, the betrayer. Once within the narrow single-seated buggy she
looked back, hoping against hope; but her father was nowhere in sight.

After the first greeting, neither she nor Sidwell spoke for some
minutes. For a time Florence did not even look at her companion. She had
a suspicion that he already knew most if not all that had taken place in
the Baker home the last day; and the thought tinged her face scarlet. At
last she gave a furtive glance at him. He was not looking, and her eyes
lingered on his face. It was paler than she had ever seen it before;
there were deep circles under the eyes, and he looked nervous and tired;
but over it all there was an expression of exaltation that could have
but one meaning to her.

"You must let me read it when you get it in shape," she began suddenly.

Sidwell turned blankly. "Read what, please?" he asked.

The girl smiled triumphantly. "The story you have just written. I know
by your face it must be good."

The flame of exaltation vanished. The man understood now.

"What if I should refute your theory?" he asked.

"I hardly believe that is possible. I know of nothing else which could
make you look like that."

Sidwell hesitated. "There are but few things," he admitted, "but
nevertheless I spoke the truth. It was one of them this time."

Florence smiled interestedly. "I am very curious," she suggested.

The brown eyes and the black met steadily. "Very well, then," said the
man, "I'll tell you. The reason was, because I have with me the
handsomest girl in the whole city."

Instantly the brown eyes dropped; the face reddened, but not with the
flush of pleasure. Florence was not yet sufficiently artificial for such
empty compliment.

"I'd rather you wouldn't say such things," she said simply. "They hurt
me."

"But not when they're true," he persisted.

There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence; the tap of the
thoroughbreds' feet on the asphalt sounding regular as the rattle of a
snare-drum, the rows of houses at either side running past like the
shifting scenes of a panorama. They passed numbers of other