and
brighter--and make me more of a man--so you won't have to worry about
hurting _me_. Once I told you we couldn't be friends, but now I know you
better, and what you've got in your heart for me--and what stands between
us--I take that back. A friend can worship his friend. I worship you. I
_will_ be your friend, angel, in the biggest sense of the word."

"Oh, thank you, Nick," she cried. "Thank you a thousand times. Now I can
live again--just thinking--as you say--that you're _there_. The world
can't be blank. But you must go. I--I don't think I could bear this long,
and keep true--to myself--and----"

It was the same with Nick. He had felt that he could not bear this long
and be true either to himself or to her. Yet he would have stayed if she
had bidden him stay, and fought for his manhood against odds. "Am I to
go--now?" he asked.

"Yes--oh, please, yes!" she begged him, holding out her hands. "I am keyed
up to bear it now. It might be different later. But--let us write to each
other, Nick. I'll write little things every day--that I think and feel.
Then, if they're worthy, I'll send them to you--once a month or so. Will
you do the same?"

"Yes."

"And you'll take care of yourself--for me--won't you?"

He could not answer in words. He crushed her hands against his lips, and
then, turning from her abruptly, walked away, without looking back.

* * * * *

It grew cold at Lake Tahoe. When weeks had passed, there was no excuse to
stay: the plans of the architect were finished, and the new house begun.
Angela went to Del Monte, and motored nearly every day to the forest on
the peninsula to see how her home grew. She had not the old interest in
thinking of it, but she was no longer unhappy, for she had not lost Nick
Hilliard out of her life. She could almost feel the thrill of his
thoughts. And at Del Monte she was much nearer Lucky Star City than she
had been at Tahoe.

Sometimes she wondered if it would be very wrong and unwise to have him
come to look at the house when it was finished. If, afterward, she could
have the memory of him in the rooms, walking through them with her--just
that, no more; and then going away--it would make all the difference
between a live home and a dead house, or a house that never had really
"come alive." But generally, when she had dreamed this dream, she said to
herself, "Better not," or "It would never do."

One morning in October, just six month