ong letter of Althea's, in which Gerald had been asked to come with
her, to say that Gerald was yachting, and that she was sure he would
love to come some time in the autumn, if his plans allowed it; and
Althea, on reading this, felt certain that if she counted for little
with Helen, she counted for nothing with Mr. Digby. Whom did she count
with? That was the question that once more assailed her as she saw
herself sink into insignificance beside Mildred and Dorothy. If Mildred
and Dorothy counted for more than she, where was she to look for
response and sympathy? And now, once again, as if in answer to these
dismal questionings, came a steamer letter from Franklin Winslow Kane,
announcing his immediate arrival. Althea had thought very little about
Franklin in these last weeks; her mind had been filled with those
foreground figures that now seemed to have become uncertain and
vanishing. And it was not so much that Franklin came forward as that
there was nothing else to look at; not so much that he counted, as that
to count so much, in every way, for him might almost atone for counting
with no one else. Physically, mentally, morally, Franklin's
appreciations of her were deep; they were implied all through his
letter, which was at once sober and eager. He said that he would stay at
Merriston House for 'just as long as ever she would let him.' Merely to
be near her was to him, separated as he was from her for so much of his
life, an unspeakable boon. Franklin rarely dealt in demonstrative
speeches, but, in this letter, after a half-shy prelude to his own
daring, he went on to say: 'Perhaps, considering how long it's been
since I saw you, you'll let me kiss your beautiful hands when we meet.'

Franklin had only once kissed her beautiful hands, years ago, on the
occasion of her first touched refusal of him. She had severe scruples as
to encouraging, by such graciousness, a person you didn't intend to
marry; but she really thought, thrilling a little as she read the
sentence, that this time, perhaps, Franklin might. Franklin himself
never thrilled her; but the words he wrote renewed in her suddenly a
happy self-confidence. Who, after all, was Franklin's superior in
insight? Wrapped in the garment of his affection, could she not see with
equanimity Helen's vagueness and Gerald's indifference? Why, when one
came to look at it from the point of view of the soul, wasn't Franklin
their superior in every way? It needed some moral ef