much about it, Jim," she said, with
dignity; "but Wesley and I had a--a little misunderstanding. It's all
explained away now."

And to this meager explanation she stubbornly adhered, through
subsequent soul-searching conversations with her mother, and during
the years of married life that followed. In time she came to believe
it, herself; and the "little misunderstanding with Wesley" and its
romantic denouement became a well-remembered milestone, wreathed with
sentiment.

But poised triumphant on this pinnacle of joy, she yet had time to
think of another than herself.

"Jim," said she, a touch of matronly authority already apparent in
her manner. "I've wanted for a long time to talk to you seriously
about Ellen."

Jim stared.

"About Ellen?" he repeated.

"Jim, she's awfully fond of you. I think you've treated her cruelly."

"Look here, Fan," said Jim, "don't you worry yourself about Ellen
Dix. She's not in love with me, and never was."

Having thus spoken, Jim would not say another word. He gulped down
his supper and was off. He kissed Fanny when he went.

"Hope you'll be happy, and all that," he told her rather awkwardly.
Fanny looked after him swinging down the road. "I guess it's all
right between him and Ellen," she thought.

Chapter XXV

Jim had no definite plan as he tramped down the road in the falling
darkness. He felt uncertain and miserable as he speculated with
regard to Lydia. She could not guess at half the unkind things people
must be saying; but she would ask for the bread of sympathy and they
would give her a stone. He wished he might carry her away, shielding
her and comforting her against the storm. He knew he would willingly
give his life to make her happier. Of course she did not care for
him. How could she? Who was he--Jim Dodge--to aspire to a girl like
Lydia?

The wind had risen again and was driving dark masses of cloud across
the sky; in the west a sullen red flared up from behind the hills,
touching the lower edges of the vaporous mountains with purple. In a
small, clear space above the red hung the silver sickle of the new
moon, and near it shone a single star.... Lydia was like that star,
he told himself--as wonderful, as remote.

There were lights in the windows of Bolton House. Jim stopped and
gazed at the yellow squares, something big and powerful rising within
him. Then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he approached and looked in.
In a great armchair before the b