"I want the truth," said John Gilman gravely.

"Well," said Linda, "I never knew Eileen to be honest about anything
in all her life unless the truth served her better than an evasion. Her
hair was not honest color and it was not honest curl. Her eyebrows were
not so dark as she made them. Her cheeks and lips were not so red, her
forehead and throat were not so white, her form was not so perfect. Her
friends were selected because they could serve her. As long as you were
poor and struggling, Marian was welcome to you. When you won a great
case and became prosperous and fame came rapidly, Eileen took you. I
believe what I told you a minute ago: I think she has gone for good. I
think she went because she had not been fair and she would not be forced
to face the fact before you and me and the president of the Consolidated
today. I think you will have to take your heart home tonight and I think
that before the night is over you will realize what Marian felt when she
knew that in addition to having been able to take you from her, Eileen
was not a woman who would make you happy. I am glad, deeply glad, that
there is not a drop of her blood in my veins, sorry as I am for you and
much as I regret what has happened. I won't ask you to stay tonight,
because you must go through the same black waters Marian breasted, and
you will want to be alone. Later, if you think of any way I can serve
you, I will be glad for old sake's sake; but you must not expect me ever
to love you or respect your judgment as I did before the shadow fell."

Then Linda rose, replaced the letter, turned the key in the lock, and
quietly slipped out of the room.

When she opened her door and stepped into her room she paused in
astonishment. Spread out upon the bed lay a dress of georgette with
little touches of fur and broad ribbons of satin. In color it was
like the flame of seasoned beechwood. Across the foot of the bed hung
petticoat, camisole, and hose, and beside the dress a pair of satin
slippers exactly matching the hose, and they seemed the right size.
Linda tiptoed to the side of the bed and delicately touched the dress,
and then she saw a paper lying on the waist front, and picking it up
read:

Lambie, here's your birthday, from loving old Katy.

The lines were terse and to the point. Linda laid them down, and picking
up the dress she walked to the mirror, and holding it under her chin
glanced down the length of its reflection. What she saw almos