t for all his temerity he
was--a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand
in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly--it was a
spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at
least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to
where Myrna stood.

"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?"

She turned to him, smiling.

"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with
the trunks. And afterwards"--her hand was on his sleeve again--"though
I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be
back shortly, and you must wait."

"I will wait," said Jean.

-- VII --

WHERE GLORY AWAITS

His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat,
which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean
dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped
Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna
Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged
within--occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices--and he
was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he
would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made _poupees_ out
of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had
so delighted her. It was very curious--very curious that a little
thing like that should have taken their fancy!

His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no
account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a
dream--no, not a dream--something much more vital than a dream. From a
dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the
spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his
being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him;
away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return,
kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but
half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost
utterly lost control of himself.

A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would
lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that
ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing,
self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession
were gone and he was master, would prove too strong