s; but never before had it
served him so well. It had enabled him to tell the woman he loved, and
incidentally a million other people, how deeply he honored her; how
clearly he appreciated her power for good. No one would know he meant
Sister Anne, save two people--Sister Anne and himself; but for her and
for him that was as many as should know. In his story he had used real
incidents of the day; he had described her as she passed through the
wards of the hospital, cheering and sympathetic; he had told of the
little acts of consideration that endeared her to the sick people.

The next morning she would know that it was she of whom he had written;
and between the lines she would read that the man who wrote them loved
her. So he fell asleep, impatient for the morning. In the hotel at which
he lived the REPUBLIC was always placed promptly outside his door; and,
after many excursions into the hall, he at last found it. On the
front page was his story, "The Red Cross Girl." It had the place of
honor--right-hand column; but more conspicuous than the headlines of his
own story was one of Redding's, photographs. It was the one he had taken
of Sister Anne when first she had approached them, in her uniform of
mercy, advancing across the lawn, walking straight into the focus of
the camera. There was no mistaking her for any other living woman;
but beneath the picture, in bold, staring, uncompromising type, was a
strange and grotesque legend.

"Daughter of Millionaire Flagg," it read, "in a New Role, Miss Anita
Flagg as The Red Cross Girl."

For a long time Sam looked at the picture, and then, folding the paper
so that the picture was hidden, he walked to the open window. From
below, Broadway sent up a tumultuous greeting--cable cars jangled, taxis
hooted; and, on the sidewalks, on their way to work, processions of
shop-girls stepped out briskly. It was the street and the city and the
life he had found fascinating, but now it jarred and affronted him. A
girl he knew had died, had passed out of his life forever--worse than
that had never existed; and yet the city went or just as though that
made no difference, or just as little difference as it would have made
had Sister Anne really lived and really died.

At the same early hour, an hour far too early for the rest of the house
party, Anita Flagg and Helen Page, booted and riding-habited, sat alone
at the breakfast table, their tea before them; and in the hands of Anita
Flagg was