the fall. Only, instead of a
flaming sword, hers was of ice. She was in a dressing gown or tea
gown, white and clinging and full of intoxicating hints and glimpses
of all the beauties of her figure. Her face softened as she continued
to look at me, and I entered.

"No--please don't turn on any more lights," I said, as she moved
toward the electric buttons. "I just came in to--to see if I could do
anything for you." In fact, I had come, longing for her to do
something for me, to show in look or tone or act some sympathy for me
in my loneliness and trouble.

"No, thank you," she said. Her voice was that of a stranger who wished
to remain a stranger. And she was evidently waiting for me to go. You
will see what a mood I was in when I say I felt as I had not since I,
a very small boy indeed, ran away from home--it was one evening after
I had been put to bed; I came back through the chilly night to take
one last glimpse of the family that would soon be realizing how
foolishly and wickedly unappreciative they had been of such a treasure
as I; and when I saw them sitting about the big fire in the lamp
light, heartlessly comfortable and unconcerned, it was all I could do
to keep back the tears of self-pity--and I never saw them again.

"I've seen Roebuck," said I to Anita, because I must say something, if
I was to stay on.

"Roebuck?" she inquired. Her tone reminded me that his name conveyed
nothing to her.

"He and I are in an enterprise together," I explained. "He is the one
man who could seriously cripple me."

"Oh," she said, and her indifference, forced though I thought it,
wounded.

"Well," said I, "your mother was right."

She turned full toward me, and even in the dimness I saw her quick and
full sympathy--an impulsive flash that was instantly gone. But it had
been there!

"I came in here," I went on, "to say that--Anita, it doesn't in the
least matter. No one in this world, no one and nothing, could hurt me
except through you. So long as I have you, they--the rest--all of them
together--can't touch _me_."

We were both silent for several minutes. Then she said, and her voice
was like the smooth surface of the river where the boiling rapids run
deep:

"But you _haven't_ me--and never _shall_ have. I've told you that. I
warned you long ago. No doubt you will pretend, and people will say,
that I left you because you lost your money. But it won't be so."

I was beside her instantly, was looking into her f