ner of it the
more.

"Why can't she leave Johnny alone? I've known him all these years, and
it seems as if he had belonged to me. He never looked at any other girl,
and now--now--she is here with all her money and her looks--and he is
bewitched, he is different."

Helen rose; she wanted a few quiet words with Connie.

"I want to show you something in the garden, Connie," she said. "I know
Joan won't mind." And so the two went out and left Joan alone with the
girl, who watched her silently.

Out in the garden Helen and Constance had what women love and hold so
dear--a heart-to-heart talk, an exchange of secrets and ideas.

"Do you think she cares for him?"

"I don't know, dear; but do you think he cares for her?"

"I am certain of it!"

"She spoke of him very nicely to-day. She said--" Helen repeated Joan's
exact words.

So they talked, these two in the garden, of their hopes and of what
might be, unselfish talk of happiness that might possibly come to those
they loved, and in the drawing-room Ellice Brand eyed this girl, her
rival, whom she hated.

"Will you excuse me?" Joan said suddenly. "There is a letter I must
write. I have just remembered that the post goes at five, so--"

"Of course!"

She laughed sharply when Joan had gone out. "If he were here, it would
be different. She would be all smiles and graciousness, but I am not
worth while bothering about."

Joan wrote the cheque. It was for a large sum, the largest cheque not
only that she had ever drawn, but that she had ever seen in her life.
But it would be money well spent; it would silence the slanderous
tongue.

"I am sending you the money you demand. I understand your letter
thoroughly. I am neither going to defend myself, nor excuse myself
to you. I of course realise that I am paying blackmail, and do so
rather than be annoyed and tormented by you. Here is your money. I
trust I shall neither hear of you nor see you again.

"JOAN MEREDYTH."

And this letter Joan posted with her own hand in the same post-box into
which she had dropped that letter more than a week ago, the letter to a
man who was without chivalry and generosity. She thought of him at the
moment she let this other letter fall.

Yes, of the two she despised him and hated him the more.

And then when the letter was posted and gone beyond recall, again came
the self-questionings. Had she done right? Had she not acted foolishly
and weakly, to pay thi