at Dick would be the same to him as ever. In the first
acute moment of his pain he had cried out some quick word of bitter
reproach, but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He was glad now
that he had said nothing against the girl. And as he thought of her in
the saner light of the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair
to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than Iola. "It's that
confounded voice of hers, and her eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got
something diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he had gone too
far, he continued, still musing aloud, "She's good enough, I guess, but
not for Barney." That was one of the bitter things that had survived the
night. She was not good enough for his brother, his hero, his beau ideal
of high manhood ever since he could think. "But there is no one
good enough for Barney," he continued, "except--yes--there is
one--Margaret--she is good enough--even for Barney." As Barney among
men, so Margaret among women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his
life he had put these two together. Even as a little fellow, when saying
his prayers to his mother, next in the list to Barney's name had always
come Margaret's. She was like Barney in so many ways; strong like Barney
in her relentless devotion to duty; she had Barney's fine sense of
honour, of righteousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more than
anything else, the same unfathomable heart of love. One could never get
to the bottom of it. No matter what the drain, there would still be love
there.

It was the thought of Margaret that had set his heart singing within him
this morning. Even last night, after the first few moments of pain, the
thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing an odd sense of happiness,
and early this morning the first consciousness of loss, that had made
him tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been followed by that
feeling of happiness, indefinable at first, but soon traced to the
thought of Margaret. For the first time in his life he thought of her
unrelated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, rejoiced in her high
spirit, her courage, her downright sincerity, her deep heart, but never
for himself, always for Barney. The first resentment that Barney should
have passed her by for one like Iola had given way to a timid fluttering
of heart that strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the way to
Margaret for him stood open. For himself, now, he might love h