ound the pillar, and met her squarely as she came toward him.

He stood still in her path, and she, looking partially up to pass him
with that complete ignoring of his presence which young women of
breeding employ when strangers threaten to take notice, heard his low
voice: "Please don't run away--from your friend!"

"Oh--Mr. King!" Her eyes, startled, met his indeed, and into her face,
as she spoke his name, poured a flood of beautiful colour, at sight of
which King all but lost his head.

He managed, however, to retain sufficient sanity to grasp her hand after
the fashion approved as the proper sign of cordiality in meeting a
valued acquaintance, and to say, in an outwardly restrained manner:
"Won't you sit down again here? We can talk so much better than
outside--and I must talk with you. You have no idea how hard I have
tried to find you."

She seemed to hesitate for an instant, but ended by slipping into the
pew by the pillar where King had been sitting, and to which he pointed
her, as the most sheltered spot at hand, where the group of people at
the front of the church were hidden from view, and only the now low and
throbbing notes of the organ could remind the pair that they were not
absolutely alone.

"This is wonderful--for me," King began, in the hushed tone befitting
such a place--and the tone which suited his feelings as well. "I have
thought of you a million times in these months and longed to know just
how you were looking. Now that I see for myself my mind is a bit
easier--and yet--I'm somehow more anxious about you than ever."

"There's no reason why you should be anxious about me, Mr. King," she
answered, her eyes releasing themselves from his in spite of his effort
to hold them. "I'm doing very well, and--quite enjoying my work. How
about yourself? I hardly need to ask."

"Oh, I'm coming on finely, thank you. I've plunged into my work with all
the zest I ever had. Only one thing has bothered me: I seemed unable to
get out of the habit of watching the mails. And they have been mighty
disappointing."

"You surely couldn't expect," she said, smiling a little, "that once you
were well again you should be pampered with frequent letters."

"I certainly haven't been pampered. One letter in all this time--"

"Book agents haven't much time for writing letters. And surely engineers
must be busy people."

He was silent for a minute, studying her. She seemed, in spite of her
youth and beauty, wonderfu