ou think that people have
to work to be happy?" she said. "I hate work. I like to be warm and
comfortable, and have pretty clothes, and--everything."

"Of course you do," said Justin, responding to her mood, lightly, "but
you don't want to get Dr. Blake after you--he preaches a gospel of
endeavor."

"Oh!" There was a note of dismay in Bettina's voice. "But not all of us
can be bees. Some of us must be the butterflies."

Justin spoke, somewhat seriously: "I've been a butterfly for three
years, and I give you my word I'm not getting much out of it. Seeing
Mrs. Martens has brought back the days when I worked over there in
Germany to get the money to finish my studies. Has she told you how I
used to go to her and drink her delicious coffee and eat thick bread and
butter, and bask in her sympathy until I got the courage to go on again?
Yet I felt all the time that I was getting somewhere, and here I'm
stagnating----"

Bettina settled herself back comfortably in her cushioned seat. "Well, I
don't think it's anything to worry about. It seems perfectly wonderful
to me not to have anything to do--if I had mother back," her voice
trembled, "I wouldn't care how much I had to work for her--but after
she--left me, everything seemed so--so sordid, and hard--and----Oh, I
hated it--and then----" She drew herself up sharply.

"Then----?" Justin prompted her.

"Diana came," she went on, after a moment's hesitation, "and now
everything will be different."

Justin had a baffled sense of some mystery from the solution of which he
was shut out, but he merely said, heartily, "I hope you'll stay
forever," and felt his heart leap as the ends of her white veil
fluttered against his lips.

CHAPTER VII

HARBOR LIGHT

Anthony's sanatorium was an enlargement of an old mansion which had
belonged to his grandfather. The wide green lawns swept down to the sea.
There was an orchard to the left of the house, and to the right a rose
garden, and the barn had been turned into a weaving room.

Within the house everything was restful and harmonious. Money had been
spent without stint to produce beauty in its most subtle expression;
each window framed a view of sea or sky or of sunlighted trees; the
walls, the hangings, the rugs were of that ashes-of-rose tint which give
light to an interior without glare.

Diana, entering, with her arms full of lilacs, was met by a nurse.

"Dr. Blake wants you at once," she said; "he's in his office."