the penny."

So before the waiting relations the house was adjudged to my cousin
Selwyn. When the restoration was complete I met Selwyn at the sundial.
We had met there often in the course of the restoration, in which
business we both took an extravagant interest.

"Now," I said, "we'll spin the penny. Heads you take the house, tails it
comes to me."

I spun the coin--it fell on the brick steps of the sundial, and stuck
upright there, wedged between two bricks. She laughed; I laughed.

"It's not _my_ house," I said.

"It's not _my_ house," said she.

"Dear," said I, and we were neither of us laughing then, "can't it be
_our_ house?"

And, thank God, our house it is.

II

THE POWER OF DARKNESS

It was an enthusiastic send-off. Half the students from her Atelier were
there, and twice as many more from other studios. She had been the belle
of the Artists' Quarter in Montparnasse for three golden months. Now she
was off to the Riviera to meet her people, and every one she knew was at
the Gare de Lyons to catch the pretty last glimpse of her. And, as had
been more than once said late of an evening, "to see her was to love
her." She was one of those agitating blondes, with the naturally rippled
hair, the rounded rose-leaf cheeks, the large violet-blue eyes that look
all things and mean Heaven alone knows how little. She held her court
like a queen, leaning out of the carriage window and receiving bouquets,
books, journals, long last words, and last longing looks. All eyes were
on her, and her eyes were for all--and her smile. For all but one, that
is. Not a single glance went Edward's way, and Edward, tall, lean,
gaunt, with big eyes, straight nose, and mouth somewhat too small, too
beautiful, seemed to grow thinner and paler before one's eyes. One pair
of eyes at least saw the miracle worked, the paling of what had seemed
absolute pallor, the revelation of the bones of a face that seemed
already covered but by the thinnest possible veil of flesh.

And the man whose eyes saw this rejoiced, for he loved her, like the
rest, or not like the rest; and he had had Edward's face before him for
the last month, in that secret shrine where we set the loved and the
hated, the shrine that is lighted by a million lamps kindled at the
soul's flame, the shrine that leaps into dazzling glow when the candles
are out and one lies alone on hot pillows to outface the night and the
light as best one may.

"Oh, good-bye, g