e said; "I wanted to say good-by
to the stars!"

"And why did you want to say good-by to the stars?" he asked, speaking
softly, as to a child.

"Because," she said, "I am leaving them. Because I am leaving the stars."

"And why are you leaving the stars?" he asked, taking a step toward her.

She turned toward him, now, and laid both her hands lightly upon his
shoulders. "Because, John, I am going to you," she said; "because, John,
I love you."

"Dora!" he cried.

She arrested him with a gesture. "I have loved you long, John," she went
on; "I have loved you long--but I have fought it, fought it, fought it,
John!"

"And why have you fought it?" he asked, again gently, as to a child.

"Because, John--oh, I don't know. Because, John, there is something
within me--which I don't know. Something which yearns, John--for I don't
know what. For peaks, John, for skies, for the stars; for--I don't
know----"

"Dora, Dora," he said, a bit sadly.

"And so I fought it, John, I fought your love. But it has poured into me,
John, as honey fills a chalice; gradually, sweetly, it has filled my
veins, my blood, my heart, John. And to-night, John, my whole being was
swollen with it, John, with the love of you, John, and I came out to say
good-by to the stars----"

"Dora!" he cried again; and this time enveloped her in his arms.

A horrid, impish feeling suddenly pricked Charles-Norton; taking wing he
slid along the veranda and seized, as he passed, from the shoulders of
the girl, the scarf, from the conceited head of the young man, his derby
hat, and flapped off with them in the darkness. The crash of an
astonished chair and a faint little cry followed him for a moment, then
dropped off behind.

Charles-Norton laughed all the way home. Half-way over he dropped, into
the deepest abyss he knew, the derby hat, which arrived at the bottom, no
doubt, in very bad condition. But the scarf was still with him as he
alighted in the meadow and felt against his hand the humid greeting of
Nicodemus, the lonely little donkey.

Across the cabin, as he went to sleep, the empty bunk yawned, somehow,
with unusual insistence. "I wonder what Dolly is doing," he said vaguely,
as he slid down the slumber-chute.

CHAPTER XII

Dolly was getting along very well, thank you. Mostly, she was reading the
papers. For if Charles-Norton thought for a moment that his indiscretions
were to go unrecorded, he was very much mistaken.

Cuddled in th