what she
needed.

She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and
buttons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl
over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte.

Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running
toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she
almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister.

Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a
green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave
an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the
shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:--

"Marjory!"

She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would
hide her.

"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes.

Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl's hands.

"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact.
"Peter--Peter, it's Marjory Stockton!"

Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who
cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at
Beatrice.

"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he
paid."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Peter!" she cried.

He tried to smile.

"It's at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you
were in Paris, Marjory."

"I came here to-day."

She spoke nervously.

"Then," he asked, "you--you are to be here a little while?"

Marjory passed her hand over her forehead.

"I don't know," she faltered.

Peter looked so thin! It was evident he had been long ill. She did
not like to see him so. The shade over his eyes horrified her.
Beatrice came nearer.

"If you could encourage him a little," she whispered. "He has wanted
so much to see you."

It was as if she in some way were being held responsible.

"You're not stopping here?" gasped Marjory.

"At the Hotel des Roses," nodded Beatrice. "And you?"

Peter with his haggard, earnest face, and Beatrice with her clear
honest eyes, filled her with sudden shame. It would be impossible to
make them understand. They were so American--so direct and
uncompromising about such affairs as these.

Beatrice had the features of a Puritan maid, and dressed the part, from
her severe little toque, her prim white dress reaching to her ankles,
to her sturdy boots. Her blue eyes were already growing big at
Marjory's hesitancy at answering so