is sad eyes. And then I cried, and he came up to me--fancy
a man coming up before you all like that--"

"It was quite the most dramatic moment," said the lady who wrote.
"Quite unbelievable in real life. One finds those things occasionally
in fiction."

"It was as if there were just two of us alone in the world," Drusilla
confessed, "and I said what I did because I simply couldn't help it.
And it was true at the moment; I think it is always going to be true.
If I marry him I shall care a great deal. But it has not come to me
just as I had--dreamed."

"Nothing is like our dreams," said Marion, and dropped her pen.
"That's why I write. I can give my heroine all the bliss for which she
yearns."

Drusilla stood up. "You mustn't misunderstand me, Marion. I am very
happy in the thought of my good friend, of my great lover. It is only
that it hasn't quite measured up to what I expected."

"Nothing measures up to what we expect."

"And now Jean belongs to Derry, and I belong to my gallant and good
Captain. I shall thank God before I sleep tonight, Marion."

"And he'll thank God--."

They kissed each other, and Drusilla went to bed, and the next morning
she wrote a letter to her Captain, which he carried next to his heart
and kissed when he got a chance.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WHITE CAT

Derry, going quietly to his room that night, did not stop at the
General's door. He did not want to speak to Hilda, he did not want to
speak to anyone, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts of Jean and
that perfect ride with her through the snow.

He was, therefore, a little impatient to find Bronson waiting up for
him.

"I thought I told you to go to bed, Bronson."

"You did, sir, but--but I have something to tell you."

"Can't it wait until morning?"

"I should like to say it now, Mr. Derry." The old man's eyes were
anxious. "It's about your father--"

"Father?"

"Yes. I told you I didn't like the nurse."

"Miss Merritt? Well?"

"Perhaps I'd better get you to bed, sir. It's a rather long story, and
you'd be more comfortable."

"You'd be more comfortable, you mean, Bronson." The impatient note had
gone out of Derry's voice. Temporarily he pigeon-holed his thoughts of
Jean, and gave his attention to this servant who was more than a
servant, more even than a friend. To Derry, Bronson wore a sort of
halo, like a good old saint in an ancient woodcut.

Propped up at last among his pillows, pink fro