ghts in this. He is happier now than
when he is what we call at rest. If," again that singular expression of
blended shadow and inward illumination rose over his face, "if I were to
be made myself and wholly cured, it would not change Corrie's position
in Corrie's eyes. I cannot help him there in that hard part, but I have
given him a way to forget for a while."

Her soft mouth bent grievedly; Flavia's attention was effectually
distracted from contemplation of her brother's bodily peril.

Gerard turned aside. He had heard the reports arrive of one accident
after another, he saw driver after driver come in gray-lipped and savage
under the strain of racing on the crowded path, and he knew what Flavia
did not--that this was proving the most disastrous affair ever held on
the Cup course.

"I don't mind risking my own neck, I'm used to that," gritted an
old-time comrade to Gerard, during a pause for refilling tanks. "It's
the people under foot; ---- them! Haven't they any sense? Jim's
Marathon hit a man, ten minutes ago; he's still driving, half crazy,
because he can't stop. _Damn_ the country police!"

"Rose----?"

"Rose is changing tires at the Westbury turn. I'm off."

That bit of news spared a bad quarter-hour to the two who loved Corrie.

Gerard was at the front of the camp, watching for his car, when he felt
a hand lain on his shoulder.

"Some racer just went off the turnpike into the ditch," Mr. Rose's
subdued tones informed him. "Where's Corrie?"

"Safe; changing tires on this side of the turnpike," Gerard gave quick
assurance. "It's not he. But this has been a bad day; I'm not surprised
that you couldn't keep away from here."

"I couldn't keep away," Mr. Rose assented heavily. He drew out his
handkerchief and passed it across his forehead, damp under the line of
reddish-gray hair, pushing open his overcoat with the abrupt gesture
that was also a habit of his son's. "I've had a hell of an hour where I
was, Gerard. This morning I got a letter from my niece, Isabel. It seems
she is married and her husband made her write it."

The two men looked fully at each other; some quality in Thomas Rose's
expression communicated its white reflection to Gerard's changing face.

"He never did it--Corrie, I mean. Gerard, Isabel Rose threw the wrench
that struck you and wrecked your car, last year. He's been shielding
her. God, how I've ground it into the boy!"

There was a tall pile of spare tires beside them; on it G