hing
in his hand helped him to this. His mouth became firm again and his
face gentle and tender. And he stood up with renewed dignity and the
old strange look of exaltation. "I claim you then," he said. "I claim
you, Joan. Here, on this earth, we have both made mistakes. I with
Alice. You with Martin Gray. In the next life, whatever it may be, we
will begin again together. I will teach you from the beginning. Death
and the Great Emotion. It will be very beautiful. Shut your eyes, my
sweet, and we will take the little step together." The thing glistened
in his grasp.

And Joan shut her eyes with her hands to her breast. "I love you,
Martin," she whispered. "I love you. I will wait until you come."

And Gilbert cried out, in a loud ringing voice, "Eternity, oh, God!"
and raised his hand.

There was a crash, a ripping of window screen. Coatless, hatless, his
shirt gaping at the neck, his deep chest heaving, Martin swept into the
room like a storm, flung himself in front of Joan, staggered as the
bullet hit him, cried out her name, crumpled into a heap at her feet.

And an instant later lay beneath the sweet burden of the girl whose
call he had answered once again and to whom life broke like a glass
ball at the sight of him and let her through into space.

V

"You may go in," said the doctor.

And Joan, whiter than a lily, rose from the corner in which she had
been crouching through all the hours of the night and went to the
doorway of the room to which Martin had been carried by the Nice Boy
and Gilbert, the man who had been shocked back to sanity.

On a narrow bed, near a window through which a flood of sunlight
poured, lay Martin from whom Death had turned away,--honest, normal,
muscular, reliable Martin, the bullet no longer in his shoulder. His
eyes, eager and wistful, lit up as he saw her standing there and the
brown hand that was outside the covers opened with a sort of quiver.

With a rush Joan went forward, slipped down on her knees at the side of
the bed, broke into a passion of weeping and pressed her lips to that
outstretched hand.

Making no bones about it, being very young and very badly hurt, Martin
cried too, and their tears washed the bridge away and the barriers and
misunderstandings and criss-crosses that had sprung up between them
during all those adolescent months.

"Martin, Martin, it was all my fault."

"No, it wasn't, Joany. It was mine. I wasn't merely your pal, ever. I
loved