ked." Marion looked hurriedly about her as though fearful that
someone might have seen the thought which crept into her mind. "He
believes in love," she continued. "He says the right one exists. I
wonder if it is true."

Florence came into the room to say good-night. Marion usually enjoyed
repeating her day's experiences, and discussing her impressions with her
friend, and Florence knew that at such times she was expected to approve
of every sentiment, or be called unsympathetic, but when Florence kissed
her good-night Marion made no suggestion about talking over experiences,
and as neither woman felt inclined for an exchange of confidences,
Florence hurried away to her room. Marion's eyes followed her as she
left. "She acts strangely," she thought; "I wonder if her friendship
could change? Perhaps, for we are so different. No one understands me,"
she sighed after a moment. "If I only had someone I could trust and
love." A man stood in the doorway behind her. He heard the sigh, and he
remained for a moment silently thinking of the time when she had
promised to be his wife. Then he had drawn a hopeful picture of the
future, a picture full of brightness and sunshine, with a loving wife
for the central figure and happy, romping children playing about her.
That dream had flashed like a brilliant light which blazes for a moment
and dies as suddenly away, leaving black, charred ashes to mark its
place.

"Marion," he said gently.

She looked up startled. "Is it only you?" she said, with just a tone of
disappointment in her voice.

"Yes, it is only I," he answered. "Shall I ring to have the lights
turned out?"

"O, I suppose so," she sighed.

A servant came to secure the house for the night. When he appeared,
Marion slowly followed her husband upstairs, and as they passed
Florence's room, she saw a light burning. Usually Marion would have gone
in to talk, but this time she went on to her own apartment.

Long after Marion had passed that light continued to burn. With her
dress loosened and her soft brown hair falling over her white shoulders
Florence sat before the fire thinking. Between her hands was a picture.
It was Harold's, and as she gazed at the face she seemed to hear the
words: "Florence, I love you; if you were not my dearest friend, you
might love me too." "Why did he say it; why did he say it," she
murmured. Then moments from her childhood came softly back to her mind,
and she saw Harold, her old-time playma