?_

She came upon the Song of Songs--which had been pasted down in the
Enschede Bible--the burning litany of love; and from time to time
she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. There was one verse
that haunted and mocked her.

_Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of
love._

Here was Ruth Enschede--sick of love! Love--something the world
would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. All she had
found was the love of this dog. She threw her arms around Rollo's
neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head.

"Oh, Rollo, there are so many things I don't know! But you love me,
don't you?"

Rollo wagged his stump violently and tried to lick her face. He
understood. When she released him he ran down the beach for a stick
which he fetched and laid at her feet. But she was staring seaward
and did not notice the offering.

* * * * *

October. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting
in. Then came the great day. It was at lunch when McClintock
announced that in the mail-pouch he had found a letter addressed to
Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth.

Spurlock grew cold. All that confidence, born of irony,
disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. The envelope might contain
only a request as to what he wanted done with the manuscripts. In
mailing the tales he had not enclosed return postage or the
equivalent in money.

"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock,
holding out the letter.

"You open it, Ruth. I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed.

McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. She, having all
the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the
contents--a letter and a check. What the editor had to say none of
the three cared just then. Spurlock snatched the check out of
Ruth's hands and ran to the window.

"A thousand dollars in British pounds!... A thousand dollars for
four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. He was
profoundly stirred. He turned to Ruth and McClintock. "You two ...
both of you! But for you I couldn't have done it. If only you knew
what this means to me!"

"We do, lad," replied McClintock, gravely. The youth of them! And
what was he going to do when they left his island? What would
Donald McClintock be doing with himself, when youth left the
island, never more to return?

Ruth was thrilling with joy. Every drop of blood in her bod