up and turned to the door, but I could not
look up. The footsteps came nearer; I knew that a white hand swept
aside the _portiere_ at the entrance; I knew that she had entered the
room and was standing before me.

With an effort I raised my eyes and looked at her. She stood, tall and
gracious, in a ruby splendour of sunset falling through the window
beside her. The light quivered like living radiance over a dark proud
head, a white throat, and a face before whose perfect loveliness the
memory of Dorothy Armstrong's laughing prettiness faded like a star in
the sunrise, nevermore in the fullness of the day to be remembered.
Yet it was not of her beauty I thought as I stood spellbound before
her. I seemed to see a dim little valley full of whispering pines, and
a girl standing under their shadows, looking at me with the same
great, greyish-blue eyes which gazed upon me now from Marian Lindsay's
face--the same face, matured into gracious womanhood, that I had seen
ten years ago; and loved--aye, loved--ever since. I took an unsteady
step forward.

"Marian?" I said.

* * * * *

When I got home that night I burned Dorothy Armstrong's photograph.
The next day I went to my cousin Tom, who owns the fashionable studio
of Croyden and, binding him over to secrecy, sought one of Marian's
latest photographs from him. It is the only secret I have ever kept
from my wife.

Before we were married Marian told me something.

"I always remembered you as you looked that day under the pines," she
said. "I was only a child, but I think I loved you then and ever
afterwards. When I dreamed my girl's dream of love your face rose up
before me. I had the advantage of you that I knew your name--I had
heard of you. When Peter wrote about you I knew who you were. That was
why I agreed to correspond with you. I was afraid it was a forward--an
unwomanly thing to do. But it seemed my chance for happiness and I
took it. I am glad I did."

I did not answer in words, but lovers will know how I did answer.

The Gossip of Valley View

It was the first of April, and Julius Barrett, aged fourteen, perched
on his father's gatepost, watched ruefully the low descending sun, and
counted that day lost. He had not succeeded in "fooling" a single
person, although he had tried repeatedly. One and all, old and young,
of his intended victims had been too wary for Julius. Hence, Julius
was disgusted and ready for anything