P

In Upper Asquewan Falls the clock on the old town hall struck nine. Mr.
Magee, on guard in Baldpate's dreary office, counted the strokes. She
must be half-way down the mountain now--perhaps at this very moment she
heard Quimby's ancient gate creaking in the wind. He could almost see
her as she tramped along through the snow, the lovely heroine of the
most romantic walk of all romantic walks on Baldpate to date. Half-way
to the waiting-room where she had wept so bitterly; half-way to the
curious station agent with the mop of ginger hair. To-night there would
be no need of a troubadour to implore "Weep no more, my lady". William
Hallowell Magee had removed the cause for tears.

It was a long vigil he had begun, but there was no boredom in it for
Billy Magee. He was too great a lover of contrast for that. As he looked
around on the ill-assorted group he guarded, he compared them with the
happier people of the inn's summer nights, about whom the girl had told
him. Instead of these surly or sad folk sitting glumly under the pistol
of romantic youth he saw maids garbed in the magic of muslin flit
through the shadows. Lights glowed softly; a waltz came up from the
casino on the breath of the summer breeze. Under the red and white
awnings youth and joy and love had their day--or their night. The hermit
was on hand with his postal-carded romance. The trees gossiped in
whispers on the mountain.

And, too, the rocking-chair fleet gossiped in whispers on the veranda,
pausing only when the admiral sailed by in his glory. Eagerly it ran
down its game. This girl--this Myra Thornhill--he remembered, had
herself been a victim. After Kendrick disappeared she had come there no
more, for there were ugly rumors of the man who had fled. Mr. Magee saw
the girl and her long-absent lover whispering together in the firelight;
he wondered if they, too, imagined themselves at Baldpate in the summer;
if they heard the waltz in the casino, and the laughter of men in the
grill-room.

Ten o'clock, said the town hall pompously. She was at the station now.
In the room of her tears she was waiting; perhaps her only companion the
jacky of the "See the World" poster, whose garb was but a shade bluer
than her eyes. Who was she? What was the bribe money of the Suburban
Railway to her? Mr. Magee did not know, but he trusted her, and he was
glad she had won through him. He saw Professor Bolton walk through the
flickering half-light to join Myra Thornh