fect of his illness.

Jane was happier over this last addition to her collection than any
previous specimen.

When at last he rose reluctantly and said he must be going, she
anxiously inquired if he would be sure to come back to-morrow and the
day after.

"Why, dear lady, you are very kind! Sure there will be no risk of
wearing out a welcome? And I have no letter of introduction."

"You can't even dent the welcome at Miss Jenkins's house. It has been
forged with kindness and polished with love, and we wouldn't have time
to read a letter of introduction if you had one. Please come right
away."

Our visitor stood voicing his thanks and bidding us adieu when the
tuneful gong at the front door was struck by no uncertain hand.

The setting sun wrapped "The House of the Misty Star" in a veil of
purple, shot with pink. The subdued radiance crept into the room and
covered its shabbiness with a soft glory, the paper door slid open and,
framed in the tender twilight, stood Zura Wingate.

"I've come--" she began, then stopped.

The unfinished speech still parting her lips, with hair wind-blown and
face aglow, she gazed in surprise at Page Hanaford, and he, bending
slightly forward, gazed back at the girl, who radiated youth and all its
glorious freedom in every movement.

The silence was brief, but intense. Then Jane Gray gave vent to a long
ecstatic "Oh-h-h-h!" I made haste to welcome and introduce Zura.

"I can't stop," she said when I offered her a chair and refreshment;
and she added rather breathlessly: "I started for this house at noon;
side-tracked and went sailing. Just come to say thank you very much, but
I don't care for any lessons in English or manners, and I won't have any
kind old grandpa interfering with my affairs. Now I must hustle. If I
don't, there'll be an uprising of my ancestors. Good-by."

She went as suddenly as she had come. It was as though a wild sea-bird
had swept through the room, leaving us startled, but refreshed.

From the shadows near the door came Page Hanaford's half-humorous query,
"Do these visions have a habit of appearing in your doorway, Miss
Jenkins, or how much of what I saw was real?"

"Zura Wingate is the realest girl I know, Mr. Hanaford." He listened
intently to the short history of the girl I gave him, made no comment,
asked no questions, but said good-night very gently and went out into
the dusk.

Jane stood looking into the fire. Tightly clasping her hands across he