o offer him. But his prose had gained
because of his belief in beauty of structure and of singing lovely
words. As yet he had nothing to show for his pains, but practice had
given strength to his pen--he felt that some day with the right theme he
might do--wonders----

The trees had again closed in about him. A shadow flitted by--a fox,
unafraid and in search of a belated meal. Randy remembered the days
when he and Becky had thought that there might be wolves in the forest.
He laughed a little, recalling Becky's words. "Sister Loretto has the
feeling that the world is a dark forest, and that I am Red Riding Hood."
Was it that which had brought him back? Was there, indeed, a Wolf?

When he reached Huntersfield, and the dogs barked, he had feared for the
moment discovery. He was saved, however, by the friendly silence which
followed that first note of alarm. The dogs knew him and followed him
with wagging tails as he skirted the lawn and came at last to the gate
which had closed a few minutes before on Dalton's car. He saw the Judge
go in, Aunt Claudia, Becky--shadowy figures between the white pillars.

Then, after a moment, a room on the second floor was illumined. The
shade was up and he saw the interior as one sees the scene of a play.
There was the outline of a rose-colored canopy, the gleam of a mirror,
the shine of polished wood, and in the center, Becky in pale blue, with
a candle in her hand.

And as he saw her there, Randolph knew why he had come. To worship at a
shrine. That was where Becky belonged--high above him. The flame of the
candle was a sacred fire.

CHAPTER IV

RAIN AND RANDY'S SOUL

I

Madge came down the next morning dressed for her journey. "Oscar and
Flora are going to take me as far as Washington in their car. They want
you to make a fourth, Georgie."

Dalton was eating alone. Breakfast was served at small tables on the
west terrace. There was a flagged stone space with wide awnings
overhead. Except that it overlooked a formal garden instead of streets,
one might have been in a Parisian cafe. The idea was Oscar's. Dalton had
laughed at him. "You'll be a _boulevardier_, Oscar, until you die."

Oscar had been sulky. "Well, how do you want me to do it?"

"Breakfast in bed--or in a breakfast room with things hot on the
sideboard, luncheon, out here on the terrace when the weather permits,
tea in the garden, dinner in great state in the big dining-room."

"I suppose you think you