enly she found herself weeping helplessly, desperately, like
an exhausted child, shaken to the heart at the memory of the
rose-coloured dress.

"You like me just a bit, don't you, funny, quiet little thing? But
you'd never lift a finger to hold me--that's the wonder of
you--that's why I'll never leave you. No, not for heaven. You can't
lose me--no use tryin'."

But she had lost you, Jerry--you had left her, for all your promises,
to terrified weeping in the hushed loveliness of the terrace, where
your voice had turned her still heart to a dancing star, where your
fingers had touched her quiet blood to flowers and flames and
butterflies. She had believed you then--what would she ever
believe again? And then she caught back the despairing sobs
swiftly, for once more she heard, far off, the rushing of wings.
Nearer--nearer--humming and singing and hovering in the quiet dusk.
Why, it was over the garden! She flung back her head, suddenly eager
to see it; it was a friendly and thrilling sound in all that
stillness. Oh, it was coming lower--lower still--she could hear the
throb of the propellers clearly. Where _was_ it? Behind those trees,
perhaps? She raced up the flight of steps, dashing the treacherous
tears from her eyes, straining up on impatient tiptoes. Surely she
could see it now! But already it was growing fainter--drifting
steadily away, the distant hum growing lighter and lighter--lighter
still----

"Janet!" called Mrs. Langdon's pretty, patient voice. "Dinner-time,
dear! Is there any one with you?"

"No one at all, Mrs. Langdon. I was just listening to an airplane."

"An _airplane_? Oh, no, dear--they never pass this way any more. The
last one was in October, I think----"

The soft, plaintive voice trailed off in the direction of the
dining-room and Janet followed it, a small, secure smile touching
her lips. The last one had not passed in October. It had passed a
few minutes before, over the lower garden.

She quite forgot it by the next week--she was becoming an adept at
forgetting. That was all that was left for her to do! Day after day
and night after night she had raised the drawbridge between her
heart and memory, leaving the lonely thoughts to shiver desolately
on the other side of the moat. She was weary to the bone of suffering,
and they were enemies, for all their dear and friendly guise; they
would tear her to pieces if she ever let them in. No, no, she was
done with them. She would forget, as