e world, I've
met many of the really great people face to face, I've lived in all ages
and all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. What
more could one person do for another than you have done for me?"

"Barbara?" It was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window.
"You mustn't stay up late. Remember to-morrow."

"All right, Aunty." Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "I
forgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to Roger, in a low
tone.

"Must I go?" To-night, for some reason, he could not bear even the
thought of leaving her.

"Not just yet. I've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper,
"about my mother and--your father. Of course we can't understand--we
only know that they cared. And, in a way, it makes you and me something
like brother and sister, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that."

[Sidenote: The Barrier Broken]

All at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed
down and was forgotten. Mysteriously, Roger was very sure that those
four days had held no wrong--no betrayal of another's trust. His father
would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thought
made him straighten himself proudly. And the mother of the girl who
leaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes,
could have been nothing less than an angel.

"To-morrow"--began Roger.

[Sidenote: "To-morrow is Mine"]

"To-morrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straight
in. To-morrow is mine, but--will you come and stay with father? Keep him
away from the house and with you, until--afterward?"

"I will, gladly."

Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. "You'll never have to do
that for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots of
other things. Will you take in the chairs, please?"

A lump was in his throat and he could not speak. When he came out, after
having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control,
Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches,
with the moon shining full upon her face.

Roger went to her. "Barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved your
mother. For the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss me
to-night?"

Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and
sweetly as a child. "Good-night," she said, softly, but he could not
answer, for, at the touch, the white fire bu