e when
tragedy had opened the pores of her heart. He had been conscious for
a few minutes before the messenger of a new life summoned him into the
great beyond. He used the few minutes well. If we all lived with the
thought that the next hour would be our last, the world would be peopled
with angels--and hypocrites.

Waterbury asked permission of his host, Colonel Desha, to see Sue alone.
It was willingly granted. The girl, white-faced, came and sat by the bed
in the room of many shadows; the room where death was tapping, tapping
on the door. She had said nothing to her father regarding the events
preceding the runaway and Waterbury's accident.

Waterbury eyed her long and gravely. The heat of his great passion had
melted the baser metal of his nature. What original alloy of gold
he possessed had but emerged refined. His fingers, formerly pudgy,
well-fed, had suddenly become skeletons of themselves. They were picking
at the coverlet.

"I lied about--about Garrison," he whispered, forcing life to his mouth,
his eyes never leaving the girl's. "I lied. He was square--" Breath
would not come. "For-forgive," he cried, suddenly in a smother of sweat.
"Forgive--"

"Gladly, willingly," whispered the girl. She was crying inwardly.

His eyes flamed for an instant, and then died away. By sheer will-power
he succeeded in stretching a hand across the coverlet, palm upward.
"Put--put it--there," he whispered. "Will you?"

She understood. It was the sporting world's token of forgiveness; of
friendship. She laid her hand in his, gripping with a firm clasp.

"Thank you," he whispered. Again his eyes flamed; again died away. The
end was very near. Perhaps the approaching freedom of the spirit lent
him power to read the girl's thoughts. For as he looked into her
eyes, his own saw that she knew what lay in his. He breathed heavily,
painfully.

"Could--could you?" he whispered. "If--if you only could." There was a
great longing, a mighty wistfulness in his voice. Death was trying to
place its hand over his mouth. With a mighty effort Waterbury slipped
past it. "If you only could," he reiterated. "It--it means so little to
you, Miss Desha--so much, so much to--me!"

And again the girl understood. Without a word she bent over and kissed
him. He smiled. And so died Waterbury.

Afterward, the girl remembered Waterbury's confession. So Garrison was
honest! Somehow, she had always believed he was. His eyes, the windows
of his soul, w