white wicker, with deep, soft cushions. In the centre of
the table was a bowl of red roses. Four candles burned upright in
massive silver candlesticks.

She took off her hat mechanically, washed her face and the hand that had
not been bandaged, and "did" her hair. She looked wonderfully pretty in
the big mirror over the dressing-table. The heavy ivory brushes looked
enormous in her delicate hands. Her eyes were great and round like those
of a startled deer.

She heard his voice calling to her from the terrace: "Hello, up there!
Got everything you want? Dinner's ready when you are."

She hesitated a long time with her hand on the door-key. But what was a
locked door in an isolated house to a bad man? She drew a deep breath,
turned the key, waited a little longer, and then, as a person steps into
a very cold bath, pushed the door open and went out.

He was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She went down slowly,
her hand on the rail. She had no idea that she was making an exquisite
picture. She knew only that she was frightened.

"It's turned cool," said the young man. He caught up a light scarf of
Chinese embroidery and laid it lightly about her shoulders. She looked
him for the first time squarely in the face. She saw chiefly a pair of
rather small, deep-set blue eyes; at the outer corners were
multitudinous little wrinkles, dug by smiling. The eyes were clear as a
child's, full of compassionate laughter.

A feeling of perfect security came over her. She thanked Heaven that she
had not made a ridiculous scene. The chimes of a tall clock broke the
silence with music.

He offered her his arm, and she laid her fingers on it.

"I think we are served," he said, and led her to the terrace. He was
solicitous about placing cushions to the best advantage for her. He took
one from his own chair, and, on one knee, put it under her feet. He
smiled at her across the bowl of roses.

"How old are you?" he said. "You look like a man's kid sister."

She told him that she was seventeen and that she had worked for two
years in a department store.

"My father was a farmer," she said, "but he lost one arm, and couldn't
make it pay. So we had to come to the city."

"Is your father living?"

"Yes. But he says he is dead. He can't find any work to do. Mother
works like a horse, though, and so does Bert, and so do I. The others
are at school."

"Do you like your work?"

"Only for what it brings in."

"What does it b