resemble your mother," he said absently, as if thinking
aloud. "You don't look at all like your father."

Lynde shook her head.

"No, I don't look like Mother either. She was tiny and dark--she had a
sweet little face and velvet-brown eyes and soft curly dark hair. Oh,
I remember her look so well. I wish I did resemble her. I loved her
so--I would have done anything to save her suffering and trouble. At
least, she died in peace."

There was a curious note of fierce self-gratulation in the girl's voice
as she spoke the last sentence. Again Alan felt the unpleasant
impression that there was much in her that he did not understand--might
never understand--although such understanding was necessary to perfect
friendship. She had never spoken so freely of her past life to him
before, yet he felt somehow that something was being kept back in
jealous repression. It must be something connected with her father,
Alan thought. Doubtless, Captain Anthony's past would not bear
inspection, and his daughter knew it and dwelt in the shadow of her
knowledge. His heart filled with aching pity for her; he raged secretly
because he was so powerless to help her. Her girlhood had been
blighted, robbed of its meed of happiness and joy. Was she likewise to
miss her womanhood? Alan's hands clenched involuntarily at the
unuttered question.

On his way home that evening he again met Isabel King. She turned and
walked back with him but she made no reference to Four Winds or its
inhabitants. If Alan had troubled himself to look, he would have seen
a malicious glow in her baleful brown eyes. But the only eyes which
had any meaning for him just then were the grey ones of Lynde Oliver.

* * * * *

During Alan's next three visits to Four Winds he saw nothing of Lynde,
either in the house or out of it. This surprised and worried him.
There was no apparent difference in Captain Anthony, who continued to
be suave and friendly. Alan always enjoyed his conversations with the
Captain, who was witty, incisive, and pungent; yet he disliked the man
himself more at every visit. If he had been compelled to define his
impression, he would have said the Captain was a charming scoundrel.

But it occurred to him that Emily was disturbed about something.
Sometimes he caught her glance, full of perplexity and--it almost
seemed--distrust. She looked as if she felt hostile towards him. But
Alan dismissed the idea as absurd. She had be