r a most charming
companion, or whether I had red hair or blue. It is the work that will
tell. And when your sister, whose judgment is the judgment of the
outside world, more or less, says that the work is not worth while, I
naturally feel a bit discouraged. It meant so much to me, and it hurt
me to find it meant so little to others."

Hope remained silent for some time, but the rigidity of her attitude,
and the tightness with which she pressed her lips together, showed that
her mind was deeply occupied. They both sat silent for some few
moments, looking down toward the distant lights of the city. At the
farther end of the double row of bushes that lined the avenue they
could see one of King's sentries passing to and fro across the roadway,
a long black shadow on the moonlit road.

"You are very unfair to yourself," the girl said at last, "and Alice
does not represent the opinion of the world, only of a very small part
of it--her own little world. She does not know how little it is. And
you are wrong as to what they will ask you at the end. What will they
care whether you built railroads or painted impressionist pictures?
They will ask you 'What have you made of yourself? Have you been fine,
and strong, and sincere?' That is what they will ask. And we like you
because you are all of these things, and because you look at life so
cheerfully, and are unafraid. We do not like men because they build
railroads, or because they are prime ministers. We like them for what
they are themselves. And as to your work!" Hope added, and then paused
in eloquent silence. "I think it is a grand work, and a noble work,
full of hardships and self-sacrifices. I do not know of any man who
has done more with his life than you have done with yours." She
stopped and controlled her voice before she spoke again. "You should
be very proud," she said.

Clay lowered his eyes and sat silent, looking down the roadway. The
thought that the girl felt what she said so deeply, and that the fact
that she had said it meant more to him than anything else in the world
could mean, left him thrilled and trembling. He wanted to reach out his
hand and seize both of hers, and tell her how much she was to him, but
it seemed like taking advantage of the truths of a confessional, or of
a child's innocent confidences.

"No, Miss Hope," he answered, with an effort to speak lightly, "I wish
I could believe you, but I know myself better than any one e