whim--an ideal, however
fine, of self-support and all that. Women were made to be cared for, not
to support themselves--least of all a pretty, wilful, but winsomely
magnetic creature like Jerry Swaim, with her appealing, beautiful eyes,
her brown hair all glinted with gold, her strong little white hands, and
her daring spirit, exhilarating as wine in its exuberant influence. No,
Jerry mustn't go. She belonged to the soft and lovely settings of life.

Eugene leaned against the door of the rose-arbor as these things filled
his mind, and a love of the luxuries that surrounded him here drove back
for the moment the high purpose of his own life.

In the woodwork of the arbor, where the lightning had left its imprint,
he saw a little white envelop wedged in a splintered rift. The rose-vine
had hid it from every angle except the one he had chanced to take. He
slipped it out and read this inscription:

"To Mr. Eugene Wellington, Artist."

Inside, on Jerry's visiting-card, in her own hand-writing, was the
message: "Write me at New Eden, Kansas, Care of Mr. York Macpherson.
Don't forget what we are going to do, and when we have done, and won,
we'll meet again. Good-by. Jerry."

The young artist dropped the card and stared down the lilac-bordered
avenue toward the shadowy gray-blue west whither Jerry Swaim was gone.
And all the world seemed gray-blue, a great void, where there was
neither top nor bottom. Then he picked up the card again and put it into
his pocket, and went into the house to get ready for breakfast.

Mrs. Darby greeted his return as warmly as it was in her repressed
nature to do, conveying to him, not by any word, the feeling that he
meant more to her now than he had ever meant before.

"Didn't Jerry leave suddenly? I didn't know she was going so soon. I--I
was hoping--to find her here," was what he was going on to say.

"That she would be willing to stay here; to give up this scheme of
hers." Mrs. Darby finished the sentence for him. "Yes, I hoped so, too.
That was the only right thing to do. She chose her own time for leaving,
but she will be back soon if we manage right. Don't be a bit
discouraged, Eugene, and don't give up to her too much. She loves a
resisting force. She always did."

Eugene looked anything but encouraged just then. All "Eden" was but an
echo of Jerry Swaim, and the droop of his well-formed lips suggested
only a feeble resisting force against her smallest wish.

"She is my own flesh