during his long
imprisonment he composed--wrote, you know. I should have thought the
sights and experiences would have forced one to express one's self--that
is, one to whom the gift of expression was so generously granted," she
added, with a gracious nod.

Albert hesitated.

"Why, at first I did," he said. "When I first was well enough to think,
I used to try to write--verses. I wrote a good many. Afterwards I tore
them up."

"Tore them up!" Both Mrs. and Miss Fosdick uttered this exclamation.

"Why, yes. You see, they were such rot. The things I wanted to write
about, the things _I_ had seen and was seeing, the--the fellows like
Mike and their pluck and all that--well, it was all too big for me
to tackle. My jingles sounded, when I read them over, like tunes on a
street piano. _I_ couldn't do it. A genius might have been equal to the
job, but I wasn't."

Mrs. Fosdick glanced at her husband. There was something of alarmed
apprehension in the glance. Madeline's next remark covered the
situation. It expressed the absolute truth, so much more of the truth
than even the young lady herself realized at the time.

"Why, Albert Speranza," she exclaimed, "I never heard you speak of
yourself and your work in that way before. Always--ALWAYS you have had
such complete, such splendid confidence in yourself. You were never
afraid to attempt ANYTHING. You MUST not talk so. Don't you intend to
write any more?"

Albert looked at her. "Oh, yes, indeed," he said simply. "That is just
what I do intend to do--or try to do."

That evening, alone in the library, he and Madeline had their first
long, intimate talk, the first since those days--to him they seemed as
far away as the last century--when they walked the South Harniss beach
together, walked beneath the rainbows and dreamed. And now here was
their dream coming true.

Madeline, he was realizing it as he looked at her, was prettier than
ever. She had grown a little older, of course, a little more mature, but
surprisingly little. She was still a girl, a very, very pretty girl and
a charming girl. And he--

"What are you thinking about?" she demanded suddenly.

He came to himself. "I was thinking about you," he said. "You are just
as you used to be, just as charming and just as sweet. You haven't
changed."

She smiled and then pouted.

"I don't know whether to like that or not," she said. "Did you expect to
find me less--charming and the rest?"

"Why, no, of course n