ich each one
of them could have told for himself.

On this evening when his mind had been suddenly turned into old channels
by the finding of the newspaper clipping dealing with the wedding of
Y.D.'s daughter, Grant walked far into the outskirts of the city, paying
little attention to his course. It was late October; the leaves lay
thick on the sidewalks and through the parks; there was in all the air
that strange, sad, sweet dreariness of the dying summer.... Grant had
tried heroically to keep his thoughts away from Transley's wife. The
past had come back on him, had rather engulfed him, in that little
newspaper clipping. He let himself wonder where she was, and whether
nearly a year of married life had shown her the folly of her decision.
He took it for granted that her decision had been folly, and he arrived
at that position without any reflection upon Transley. Only--Zen had
been in love with him, with him, Dennison Grant! Sooner or later she
must discover the tragedy of that fact, and yet he told himself he was
big enough to hope she might never discover it. It would be best that
she should forget him, as he had--almost--forgotten her. There was no
doubt that would be best. And yet there was a delightful sadness in
thinking of her still, and hoping that some day--He was never able to
complete the thought.

He had been walking down a street of modest homes; the bare trees groped
into a sky clear and blue with the first chill presage of winter. A
quick step fell unheeded by his side; the girl passed, hesitated, then
turned and spoke.

"You are preoccupied, Mr. Grant."

"Oh, Miss Bruce, I beg your pardon. I am glad to see you." Even at that
moment he had been thinking of Zen, and perhaps he put more cordiality
into his words than he intended. But he had grown to have considerable
regard, on her own account, for this unusual girl who was not afraid of
him. He had found that she was what he called "a good head." She could
take a detached view; she was absolutely fair; she was not easily
flustered.

Her step had fallen into swing with his.

"You do not often visit our part of the city," she essayed.

"You live here?"

"Near by. Will you come and see?"

He turned with her at a corner, and they went up a narrow street lying
deep in dead leaves. Friendly domestic glimpses could be caught through
unblinded windows.

"This is our home," she said, stopping before a little gate. Grant's eye
followed the pathway to