scarlet wrap.

Roger took her hands in his.

"You poor little child," he said; "you poor little child."

She did not cry. She simply looked up at him, frozen-white. "Oh, it
wasn't fair for him to go--that way. He tried so hard. He tried so
hard."

"I know. And it was a great fight he put up, you must remember that."

"But to fail--at the last."

"You mustn't think of that. Somehow I can see Barry still fighting,
and winning. One of a glorious company."

"A glorious company--Barry?"

"Yes. Why not? We are judged by the fight we make, not by our
victory."

She drew a long breath. "Everybody else has been sorry. Nobody else
could seem to understand."

"Perhaps I understand," he said, "because I know what it is to
fight--and fail."

"But you are winning now." The color swept into her pale cheeks.
"Cousin Patty told me."

"Yes. You showed me the way--I have tried to follow it."

"Oh, how ignorant I was," she cried, tempestuously, "when I talked to
you of life. I thought I knew everything."

"You knew enough to help me. If I can help you a little now it will be
only a fair exchange."

It helped her merely to have him there. "You spoke of Barry's still
fighting and winning. Do you think that one goes on fighting?"

"Why not? It would seem only just that he should conquer. There are
men who are not tempted, whose goodness is negative. Character is made
by resistance against evil, not by lack of knowledge of it. And the
judgments of men are not those which count in the final verdict."

He said more than this, breaking the bonds of her despair. Others had
pitied Barry. Roger defended him. She began to think of her brother,
not as her imagination had pictured him, flung into utter darkness, but
with his head up--his beautiful fair head, a shining sword in his hand,
fighting against the powers of evil--stumbling, falling, rising again.

He saw her relax as she listened, and his love for her taught him what
to say.

And as he talked, her eyes noted the change in him.

This was not the Roger Poole of the Tower Rooms. This was a Roger
Poole who had found himself. She could see it in his manner--she could
hear it in his voice, it shone from his eyes. Here was a man who
feared nothing, not even the whispers that had once had power to hurt.

The clouds were sweeping toward them, hiding the blue; the wind whirled
the dead leaves from the paths, and stirred the budding branches of the