o to either of his sweethearts.
Around Myra's name clung the perfume and moonlight of summer evenings in
the far-off mid-continent village where he was born, while Violet
recalled the music, the comfort, and the security of a beautiful Eastern
home. Neither of these sweet and lovely girls had won his heart
completely. How was it that this woman of the blazoning bill-boards had
already put more of passion into his heart than they of the pure and
sheltered life?

He did not deceive himself. It was because Helen could not be understood
at a glance. She appealed to his imagination as some strange bird--alien
voyager--fled from distant islands in dim, purple seas. She typed the
dreams of adventuring youth seeking the princesses of other and more
romantic lands.

At times he shuddered with a fear that some hidden decay of Helen
Merival's own soul enabled her to so horrify her audience with these
desolating roles, and when the curtain fell on _The Baroness_, he was
resolved to put aside the chance of meeting the actress. Was it worth
while to be made ashamed and bitter? She might stand revealed as a
coarse and selfish courtesan--a worn and haggard enchantress whose
failing life blazed back to youth only when on the stage. Why be
disenchanted? But in the end he rose above this boyish doubt. "What does
it matter whether she be true or false? She has genius, and genius I
need for my play--genius and power," and in the delusion he rested.

He climbed to his den in the tower as physically wearied as one
exhausted with running a race, and fell asleep with his eyelids
fluttering in a feverish dream.

The hour of his appointment with her fell upon Sunday, and as he walked
up the street towards her hotel the bells in a church on a side street
were ringing, and their chimes filled his mind with memories of the
small town from which he came. How peaceful and sweet the life of
Woodstock seemed now. The little meeting-house, whose shingled spire
still pointed at the stars, would always be sweet with the memory of
Myra Thurber, whose timid clasp upon his arm troubled him then and
pained him now. He had so little to give in return for her
devotion--therefore he had given nothing. He had said good-bye almost
harshly--his ambition hardening his heart to her appeal.

Around him, in his dream of those far-off days, moved other agile
forms--young lovers like Myra and himself, their feet creaking on the
glittering snow. They stepped slowly,