aces were, he assured
her, blank. At first she had thought that sheer nonsense. But, later,
the earnest way in which it was put impressed her. Then on the heels
of that communication there had followed one from Orr, indorsing what
Annandale said, declaring that it was all quite possible, adding that,
in certain temperaments, memory when influenced by toxics will play
tricks stranger than the average mind can comfortably credit.

These letters she had not answered. Logically she could not admit the
validity of the statements which they contained. But the heart has
logic which logic does not know. Then, too, is there not that within
us that prompts us to believe less what we should than what we wish?
Sylvia's reason, guided by her inexperience, refused at first to
accept the idea that any sane man could act as Annandale had and
afterward be oblivious of it. That remorse there should be was only
natural, but that there should be no memory of anything whatever
seemed to her absurd.

But there was her cousin's assurance to the contrary. Then
imperceptibly, little by little, that assurance, filtering through the
saddened girl, took possession of her, insisting on recognition,
telling her that, though her lover had erred, yet, in erring, he was
more to be pitied than condemned. Dominated by drink, which, Orr
added, he had promised to renounce, he had gone to that haunt and,
contaminated there, knew not what he did. But she, instead of
realizing that, she who was to have been his in sickness and health,
for better, for worse, she, in her pride, had dismissed him.

He had erred, Sylvia told herself, deeply, grievously, but so, too,
had she. She had condemned when she should have condoned; she had
spurned him when it was her solicitude that he needed.

At the sure cognition of that, it was as though from her eyes a
bandage had fallen. Then at once in her tender conscience she beheld
herself, detestable in pride, a girl without a heart, one of whom he,
no doubt, was well rid of.

It was during the process of this awakening that the conflagration at
Narragansett Pier occurred. Sylvia read of it. She read, too, of
certain prowesses which the dismissed had displayed.

The account, very inexact as such accounts always are, was also highly
colored, spun out for space purposes for much more than the space was
worth. Had you not known better you would have taken it for granted
that the heroism of Annandale was on a par with that o