ere, if you are a God. We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing.
Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck,
don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Be a sport, and pile
it all on me!"

He went to bed.

There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable
result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest
prayer to God without gaining immeasurably in courage, in
fortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort.

On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a
prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. He became really
companionable, discussed the new story he had in mind, and asked
some questions about colour. Ruth, having decided a course for
herself--that of renunciation--and having the strength to keep it,
met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. So
these two young philosophers got along very well that day; and the
succeeding days.

She taught him all the lore she had; about bird-life and tree-life
and the changing mysteries of the sea. She taught him how to sail a
proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo
sprouts. Eventually this comradeship (slightly resented by Rollo)
reached a point where he could call out from the study: "Hey,
Ruth!--come and tell me what you think of this."

Her attitude now entirely sisterly, he ceased to be afraid of her;
there was never anything in her eyes (so far as he could see) but
friendly interest in all he said or did. And yet, often when alone,
he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care
in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have
filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut
the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Yesterday this
glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. No
more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. And
instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely
hurt!

One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. It
brought no coconut. There stepped forth a tall brown man. He
remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving
investigatingly. He wore a battered sun-helmet, a loin-cloth and a
pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. At length he proceeded toward
McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.

Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side
of one of the