ed loosely on her full, boyish chest. She was not
less striking, and indeed she believed this meeting on the deck of the
yacht, where formalities were quickly abridged, would appeal to the
out-of-doors man and pave the way to a closer acquaintance in Washington.
But Tisdale's glance involuntarily moved beyond to the woman seated by the
rail. Her head was turned so that he caught the finely chiseled profile,
the outward sweep of black lashes, the adorable curve of the oval chin to
meet the throat. She too wore the conventional sailor suit, but without
color, and this effect of purity, the inscrutable delicacy of her, seemed
to set her apart from these dark, materialistic sisters as though she had
strayed like a lost vestal into the wrong atmosphere. His brows relaxed.
For a moment the censor that had come to hold dominion in his heart was
off guard. He felt the magnetism of her personality drawing him once more;
he desired to cross the deck to her, drop a word into those deep places he
had discovered, and see her emotions stir and overflow. Then suddenly the
enthusiasm, for which during that drive through the mountains he had
learned to watch, broke in her face. "Look!" she exclaimed softly. "See
Rainier!"

Every one responded, but Tisdale started from his chair, and went over and
stood beside her. There, southward, through golden haze, with the dark and
wooded bluffs of Vashon Island flanking the deep foreground of opal sea,
the dome lifted like a phantom peak. "It doesn't seem to belong to our
world," she said, and her voice held its soft minor note, "but a vision of
some higher, better country."

She turned to give him her rare, grave look, and instantly his eyes
telegraphed appreciation. Then he remembered. The swift revulsion came
over him. He swung on his heel to go back to his chair, and the unexpected
movement brought him in conjunction with the punch tray. The boy righted
it dexterously, and she took the offered glass and settled again in her
seat. But from his place across the deck, Tisdale noticed a drop had
fallen, spreading, above the hem of her white skirt. The red stain held
his austere gaze. It became a symbol of blood; on the garment of the
vestal the defilement of sacrifice.

She was responsible for Weatherbee's death. He must not forget that. And
he saw through her. Now he saw. Had she not known at the beginning he was
an out-of-doors man? That he lived his best in the high spaces close to
Nature's h