were not now counting on a speedy return to good
times and high prices: they began to admit that the latter were the
outcome of extravagant speculation. They bought what they wanted, and no
more. They gave no extensive credits, and now really appeared to be
anxious to reach a permanent basis.

"We shall have to sell most of our stock at cost," he said to Winston.
"Lucky to get that, I suppose. And we shall come out about even--no
profits for this six months. Still, we shall not run back, and that is
something gained."

"We can count on the new goods, I'm pretty sure," returned Winston.
"I've had some inquiries, and sent samples. Some of the fancy
overcoatings are to be duplicated. That looks like business."

It did, indeed. Jack sat at his desk, ruminating upon it, and feeling as
if at last they saw a light through the woods, when a step startled him,
because it was not the kind of step usually heard through that hall, so
he turned. It was Fred Lawrence, with a face of ashen pallor. Jack
sprang up, dazed with the vision.

"I was to come and tell you--Maverick has gone to Depford Beach--Miss
Barry is very ill, and they have telegraphed for him. He left word--that
we were to come."

The voice had a strained, unnatural sound; and the eyes looked like
those that have wept out a passionate sorrow, and are dry from despair.

"Ill--Miss Barry--not Sylvie?"

Could he speak of her in that calm tone? A passion of rage swelled in
Fred's heart, and flushed his face. Only a moment, for the great throb
of thankfulness that it was _not_ Sylvie restored him.

"It is Miss Barry. You will go?"

The tone had that peculiar, wandering cadence, as if somehow the soul
had dropped out of it.

"Certainly," and Jack sprang up, puzzled by something quite intangible
in Fred's demeanor.

"There are just twenty minutes to catch this train. The eight-ten does
not stop at Depford, you know."

"True: I will just speak to Winston"--

"I will meet you at the station," returned Fred hurriedly, turning away.

Much as he loved Jack, it seemed as if he could not walk to the station
with him. A feeling of profound pity for Sylvie rose in his heart. This
man, noble, generous, helpful, and affectionate, had not the finely
responsive nature Sylvie Barry needed. There would be some distance or
coldness, or, worse still, a fatal dissonance. One part of her nature
must remain unmated: her soul would have a language in which he would
not only be de