lowed it. To his uninquiring mind all was as it should be with her;
she was at home again, although strangely quiet and very sweet, and
her small world was at peace with her. It was all right with her, he
considered, although all wrong with him. Except that she was strangely
subdued, which rather worried him. It was not possible, for instance,
to rouse her to one of their old red-hot discussions on religion, or
marriage, or love.

"I saw Lily Cardew this afternoon, Cameron."

"Is she all right?" asked Willy Cameron, in a carefully casual tone.

"I don't know." Pink's honest voice showed perplexity. "She looks all
right, and the family's eating out of her hand.. But she's changed
somehow. She asked for you."

"Thanks. Well, good-night, old man."

Willy Cameron was facing the decision of his life that night, as he
walked home. Lily was gone, out of his reach and out of his life. But
then she had never been within either. She was only something wonderful
and far away, like a star to which men looked and sometimes prayed. Some
day she would be free again, and then in time she would marry. Some one
like Pink, her own sort, and find happiness.

But he knew that he would always love her, to the end of his days, and
even beyond, in that heaven in which he so simply believed. All the
things that puzzled him would be straightened out there, and perhaps a
man who had loved a woman and lost her here would find her there, and
walk hand in hand with her, through the bright days of Paradise.

Not that that satisfied him. He was a very earthly lover, with the
hungry arms of youth. He yearned unspeakably for her. He would have
died for her as easily as he would have lived for her, but he could do
neither.

That was one side of him. The other, having put her away in that warm
corner of his heart which was hers always, was busy with the practical
problem of the Boyds. He saw only one way out, and that way he had been
seeing with increasing clearness for several days. Edith's candor that
night, and Mrs. Boyd's suspicions, clearly pointed to it. There was one
way by which to save Edith and her child, and to save the dying woman
the agony of full knowledge.

Edith was sitting on the doorstep, alone. He sat down on the step below
her, rather silent, still busy with his problem. Although the night was
warm, the girl shivered.

"She's not asleep. She's waiting for me to go up, Willy. She means to
call me in and ask me."

"Then I'd