n mislaid at his
inception and the void filled with a piece of chiseled marble; for years
he was a convert to this belief himself; but as he stood on the platform
of the primitive little station and looked into the soft luminous gray
eyes, swimming moist in the hard-restrained tears of the pleading girl,
he became a child. What a wondrous thing love was! Mountains were as
mole-hills before such faith. In the unlimited power of her magnetism,
what a trifle she had asked of him! With an influence so great she had
simply said, "Spare of censure this man for my sake." In thankfulness
rather than in condescension he promised.

Even in disgrace--a felon--how Mortimer was to be envied! Above all else
was such abiding love. In his, Crane's, victory was the bitterness of
defeat; the other, beaten down, triumphed in the gain of this priceless
love.

A sharp material whistle, screeching through its brass dome on the
incoming train, cut short these fantastically chaotic thoughts.

"Good-bye, and thank you," said the girl, holding out her hand to Crane.

"Good-bye," he repeated, mechanically.

What had he accomplished? He had beaten lower his rival and wedded
firmer to the beaten man the love he prized above all else. In his ears
rang the girl's words, "Wait, wait, wait." Irresponsibly he repeated to
himself, "All things come to them that wait."

Seated in the car swift whirled toward the city, he was almost surprised
to find Farrell by his side. He was like a man in a dream. A vision
of gray eyes, blurred in tears of regret, had obliterated all that was
material. In defeat his adversary had the victory. He, Philip Crane, the
man of calculation, was but a creature of emotion. Bah! At forty if a
man chooses to assume the role of Orlando he does it to perfection.

With an effort he swept away the cobweb of dreams and sat
upright--Philip Crane, the careful planner.

"You nearly missed the train," said Farrell.

"Did I?" questioned Crane, perplexedly. "I thought I got on in plenty of
time."

Farrell smiled knowingly, as befitted a man of his occupation--a
New Yorker, up to snuff. The veiled insinuation disgusted Crane.
Was everything in the world vile? He had left a young life swimming
hopelessly in the breakers of disaster, buoyed only by faith and love;
and at his side sat a man who winked complacently, and beamed upon him
with senile admiration because of his supposed gallantry.

Perhaps a year before this moral angulari