anby, but I was on the
point of calling you a fool."

"I warned her," I muttered. "Jerry isn't like other men. She's playing
with fire."

"And don't you know that that is the very worst thing you could have
done, for Jerry--for her?"

"I hadn't meant to do exactly that. She angered me."

"She would. Her idea of existence isn't yours. And if you don't mind
my saying so, I think you're wasting your time on the possible chance
of making Jerry appear ridiculous to her, to us all. Your guardianship
is hardly flattering to his intelligence or his character. You can't
help matters. Whatever the crisis, it is bound to come, the sooner the
better for Jerry and for her. My good man, can't you _see_?"

I had realized my futility already, and it was not pleasant to have it
shown me through another's eyes. Nor did I relish her calling me her
"good man," but curiously enough when she had finished I made no
reply. And so I sat meekly, Miss Gore resuming her embroidery.

"It is a pity that he cares for no other girls. There's Margaret
Laidlaw, pretty, attractive, feminine, and Sarah Carew, handsome,
sportive, masculine. One would think he'd find a choice between them
and they both like him. But no, he has eyes in his head for Marcia
only. A moment ago when he was talking to them, his gaze was on the
flower-garden. Has he never cared for any other women? Who was the
girl who got inside the wall last year, Mr. Canby?"

Una! I had forgotten her. But I shook my head.

"I meddle no more, Miss Gore. I've learned a lesson. Jerry must work
out his own salvation."

"It's merely a suggestion. Think it over."

After awhile I rose, pleading the need of exercise and begging her to
make my excuses to Marcia, I set out for the Manor. But instead of
taking the longer road to the lodge gate, when I reached the wall I
turned to the left into the footpath along which I had come that night
with the girl Una, reaching the Sweetwater and crawling under the
broken grille to the rocks where she and Jerry had met. I sat for
awhile on the brink of the stream, watching the tangling reflections
in the tiny current. Una! Somehow the place reminded me of Una
Habberton, a sanctuary for quiet thoughts; the pools below me, her
eyes reflecting the clear heavens; the intonation of the rill, her
voice; the cheerful birdnotes, her joy of life; the dignity of the
tall trees, her sanity. Less than a year ago I had turned her out of
this garden, fearing for the