her.

"Thank God!" she thought, answering his smile.

There was no dampness in the air; she aided him to the garden, where he
resumed his crutches and hobbled as far as the wonderful bush that bore
a single belated rose.

"In the South," he said, under his breath, "there is no lack of
these.... I think--I think all will be well in the South."

He tired easily, and she helped him back to his study, where young
Burleson presently found them, strolling in with his hands in the
pockets of his dinner-jacket.

His exchange of greetings with Miss Elliott was quietly formal; with her
father almost tender. It was one of the things she cared most for in
him; and she walked to the veranda, leaving the two men alone--the man
and the shadow of a man.

Once she heard laughter in the room behind her; and it surprised her,
pacing the veranda there. Yet Burleson always brought a new anecdote to
share with her father--and heretofore he had shared these with her, too.
But now!--

Yet it was by her own choice she was alone there, pacing the moonlit
porches.

The maid--their only servant--brought a decanter; she could hear the
ring of the glasses, relics of better times.... And now better times
were dawning again--brief, perhaps, for her father, yet welcome as
Indian summer.

After a long while Burleson came to the door, and she looked up,
startled.

"Will you sing? Your father asks it."

"Won't you ask me, too, Mr. Burleson?"

"Yes."

"But I want to show you my rose first. Will you come?--it is just a
step."

He walked out into the moonlight with her; they stood silently before
the bush which had so capriciously bloomed.

"Now--I will sing for you, Mr. Burleson," she said, amiably. And they
returned to the house, finding not a word to say on the way.

The piano was in decent tune; she sat down, nodding across at her
father, and touched a chord or two.

"The same song--the one your mother cared for," murmured her father.

And she looked at Burleson dreamily, then turned, musing with bent head,
sounding a note, a tentative chord. And then she sang.

A dropping chord, lingering like fragrance in the room, a silence, and
she rose, looking at her father. But he, dim eyes brooding, lay back
unconscious of all save memories awakened by her song. And presently she
moved across the room to the veranda, stepping out into the moonlit
garden--knowing perfectly well what she was doing, though her heart was
beating like a trip