e been sad."

Later the doctor found time to read his mail. On the top of the pile of
letters was a thick one in a gray envelope addressed in feminine script.
He opened it and read eagerly. Then he sat very still, trying, amid all
the beating agony of emotion, to grasp the truth as she had told it.
Diana was free. Her engagement was broken. She was coming back to
America. "I am coming home to the big house--and to you--Anthony." And
she would be there in just ten days!

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH DIANA REAPS

All the way down in the train Diana kept saying to her friend, "I am so
glad you are going to see my house, Sophie. You can't imagine how lovely
it is."

But even then Mrs. Martens was not prepared. She was given a room on the
third floor from which glass doors opened on a little balcony which
overhung the harbor. It was like the upper deck of a ship with the open
sea to the right and left, and with a strip of green peninsula cutting
into it beyond the causeway.

"That's the Neck," Diana explained; "the yacht clubs are over there and
some hotels and big houses. But I like it on this side, in the town.
It's so quaint and lovely. I'll show you some of it to-morrow morning."

"I'm not going anywhere to-morrow morning. I am going to sleep until
noon."

Diana bent and kissed her. "Poor thing, is she tired?"

"Dead."

"Well, I won't wake you. But I am going to be up with the dawn, Sophie."

Mrs. Martens turned and looked at her. "Is Anthony here?"

"Yes."

Diana caught her breath as she said it, and the two friends stood,
silently, looking over the harbor.

The twilight was taking the blue out of the water, but the beauty was
still there--with the lights on the anchored boats twinkling like stars
in the grayness, and the lighthouse making a great moon above them.

"When will you see him, Diana?"

"To-night."

"Then I'm going to bed."

"You're not--I want you to meet him, Sophie."

"You want him every bit for yourself. Don't be a hypocrite, Diana."

Diana laid her hands on Sophie's shoulders and shook her a little,
laughing.

"Sophie, do you ever feel so young that you are almost wild with it--as
if there hadn't been any years since you wore pinafores and pigtails?"

"No--I'm thirty-five, Diana."

"Don't shout it from the housetops. I'm a very few years behind. What a
lot of wasted years, Sophie."

"It's your own fault, Diana."

"But I wanted to be free----"

"And now you are longing