d Winthrop.

"That woman," continued the girl patiently, "or some other woman. What
does it matter? In five minutes, or five days, some one would have
told." She leaned toward him anxiously. "I'm not complaining," she said;
"it's my own fault. It's the life I've chosen." She hesitated and then
as though determined to carry out a programme she had already laid down
for herself, continued rapidly: "And what I want to tell you, is, that
what's best in that life I owe to you."

"Vera!" cried the man sharply.

"Listen!" said the girl. Her eyes were alight, eager. She spoke frankly,
proudly, without embarrassment, without fear of being misconstrued, as a
man might speak to a man.

"I'd be ungrateful, I'd be a coward," said the girl, "if I went away and
didn't tell you. For ten years I've been counting on you. I made you a
sort of standard. I said, as long as he keeps to his ideals, I'm going
to keep to mine. Maybe you think my ideals have not been very high, but
anyway you've made it easy for me. Because I'm in this business, because
I'm good-looking enough, certain men"--the voice of the girl grew hard
and cool--"have done me the honor to insult me, and it was knowing you,
and that there are others like you, that helped me not to care." The
girl paused. She raised her eyes to his frankly. The look in them was
one of pride in him, of loyalty, of affection. "And now, since I've met
you," she went on, "I find you're just as I imagined you'd be, just as
I'd hoped you'd be." She reached out her hand warningly, appealingly.
"And I don't want you to change, to let down, to grow discouraged. You
can't tell how many more people are counting on you." She hesitated and,
as though at last conscious of her own boldness, flushed deprecatingly,
like one asking pardon. "You men in high places," she stammered, "you're
like light houses showing the way. You don't know how many people you
are helping. You can't see them. You can't tell how many boats are
following your light, but if your light goes out, they are wrecked."
She gave a sigh of relief. "That's what I wanted to tell you," she said,
"and, so thank you." She held out her hand. "And, goodby."

Winthrop's answer was to clasp her hand quickly in both of his, and draw
her toward him.

"Vera," he begged, "come with me now!"

The girl withdrew her hand and moved away from him, frowning. "No," she
said, "no, you do not want to understand. I have my work to do tonight."

Winthrop ga