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r \ m Fl °WPS COUfcriON HE girl had the last word— as a woman will. The man only thrust his hands a little deeper into the pock ets of his coat and then turned and walked slowly away. The girl stood for a moment gazing after him with wilful eyes, then with flushed cheeks and a dis dainful air she strolled down over the sand and out among the great gray rocks and boulderous ledges which lay exposed and grim In theii rugged roughness when the tide was low. Out 3cross the sand and among ths boulders Doris slowly wandered, far along to where, in a crevice high among the rocks overlooking the sea to the horizon, she sat crouching upon a dry, tide-left bed of seaweed and wondered what she had lo be thankful for now it was Thanksgiving day, and they had quarreled. "It was his fault:” she mused regret fully as she sat there with her chin resting upon her hand and gazed ab stractedly off at a white winged sea bird circling through the air. "It was his fault!” she repeated, "and I’ll never speak to him again. Never! And I told him so,” and with a sigh she leaned wearily back against the boulder and closed her eyes and tried to think, to realize or imagine how it would seem never to see or speak to him again. "Perhaps she had been a little hasty,” 0 — 0 — 0 — 0.~0.:0.:0-*-0 — 0-f0—0.»~0--0'- she thought, "but she wanted to show him that she was her own mistress yet. and she would give the first dance to whom she pleased that night. What if they were engaged? He had no right to insist upon it, even If he did hear her half promise it to Fletcher. She didn't care anything about Fletcher, and siie only did it—well, because Dick hadn't asked her. If he had,” she meditated, “it. would have been altogether different; but to wait until some one else asked her and then to 'be indignant because she refused him. The idea!” she thought. “Just because we were engaged, he ex pected the first dance without even tak ing the trouble to ask for it.” and she sighed unconsciously and debated wheth er she would give him his ring or send it back to him the next day. She won dered if he cared or felt as badly as she did, and she sighed again and tried to Imagine just iiow indifferently cool she would be the next time she saw him. “He will have to speak first!” she re solved firmly, and then she wondered if he would, and what he would say. Then she thought how Indifferent she would Jie if he did. and she rested her cheek against the cold unresponsive side of the boulder and sobbej softly to herself. Over her head (he afternoon sun sunk deeper down into the .west and a chill began to creep out of the gathering shadows that grew with the rising tide. The sea gulls flew in wider circles and their weird cries grew louder and nearer and at last aroused a huddled form there *0.».0.».0-»-0.».0.:0.—0.:0.:0.»*0.».0.»- 00 among the rocks, and Doris lifted her tear-stained face and looked bewildered- ly about. The sun had gone and the autumn twilight had deepened into early darkness .while she had been unconscious ly sobbing herself to sleep, then sud denly realizing her danger, she sprang to her feet and climbed quickly up on to the top of the great boulder and glanced toward the shore. Nearly a mile of unbroken sea rolled between her and the deserted mainland. The sand and rocks over which she had come were now deep under water and the rising tide had keen slowly cutting off her only way of returning while she had thoughtlessly slept. ”lt is all his fault!” she repeated, and she mentally charged it up in her heart against him. For a moment she stood there gazing helplessly about. Surrounding her on every side was the rising sea lapping all around the very boulder on which she stood, too thoroughly terrified to move lest she should slip and fall. A full November night chill was in the air and the darkness was settling down fast over the land and sea. Far away along the dim uncertain shore line she could already see the gleam of a few scattered lights, and In desperate fear* Doris gathered her skirts a little closed about her and tried to cal! loudly, but her voice seemed to have suddenly lost its power and her cry ended in a low' moaning sol). The tide crept up a little higher and 0--0-»-0-*-0*-0 — 0.:0.».0.:0.*0.9. 0-»-0—0—0m-0 rippled and broke about her feet and almost drenched her with its flying spray. Only a few inches higher—a few moments longer and the very bowdder on which she stood trembling must be submerged like the others all around her whose • tops bad already disappeared some time before, and she vaguely wondered! if Dick would care or miss her very much after all. Then the thought of each and every cruel word she had uttered to him that, afternoon came and filled her heart with shame and Tcgret., One by one she saw the evening stars as they came straggling out and then she watched the early moon creep slowly out of th.e east beyond the horizon and throw its mellow light in a pathway of gold far out across the sea and along the dis tant shore. All (Was stil] save for the Incessant cry of the sea birds circling overhead and the steady monotonous wash and break of the tide as it rose higher and nearer. Somewhere off across the waters along the shore she heard a dog bark loudly for a moment and then all was still again with that somber si'ence which seemed to enshroud and fill her with an awful fear. 'Oh. Dick. I am so sorry!” she sobbed brokt nly. “Where are you—why don't you cotne?’’ ”1 am here!” came in response to her cry. and Doris started and glanced hope fully about, and there unnoticed lrt the shadow's she saw lihn plainly—Dick sit- t ng calmly In his dory watching her. lie must have heard her crying confes sion and the thought of it filled her heart •‘0-*^0‘9‘0'*‘0-m‘0-»-0—-0-»-0'»‘0—-0—-0-»-0-»-0-i with sudden humiliation and a sense of mingled shame and indignation. “Dick!” she exclaimed. “What are you doling here?” “Waiting to see if you were ready to go ashore. I thought perhaps you would be before long,’’ replied Dick coolly os he lit his pipe and leaned comfortably back on his seat. ‘‘Are your feet wet?” “No, they are not!” responded Doiis shortly. “Well, they will be pretty soon, I guess,” drawled Dick slowly, then pick ing up his oars he swung the dory around toward the shore. “I'm 'going in now,” he said carelessly. “I’ll take you ashore— if you will give me the first dance to night.” She had forgotten that all important event—the Thanksgiving ball—in the ex citement and peril of her position, and then Dick's words and manner together with his cool indifference to her danger aroused all her spirits and indignation anew. “Would you leave me to—to drown?” she cried quickly. “Oh no.’’ replied Dick slowly. “I really wouldn't do that, you know.” “But—tout you are going to!” she wailed as she saw the dory begin to drift In with the tide nearer the shore. “I’ll go ashore and find Fletcher and tell him.” called Dick as he gathered up the oars. “Keep up your courage. He will be out after you in an hour or so, but you will be late for the first dance, I guess,” and th e dory began to disap pear In the direction of the shore, then '• • ■:0--0-»- • 1 as it passed into the nearest shadow' Dick lifted his oars and smiled confidently as he waited. All was still for a moment, then just as he was about to turn back, h e heard her suddenly cry. “Oh, Dick—don't leave me," she sobbed. “Come back. I'll promise, if you will only take me home. I'm afraid out here alone.” Take a flash the light dory swung about and a moment later floated up against the side of the boulder and reach ing up Dick took her trembling hand in his and lifted her gently down into the stern and then pulled rapidly for the shore. Two hours later, Doris flushed but. hap py. Dick calm and confident, led the (grand march and after the first dance was over strolled out Into the moonlight. A line of broken rocks and boulders ran far out into the sea and loomed up for biddingly against the evening sky. “Tell me, Dick!’’ demanded Doris se riously. “Would you have left me out there to drowm if I hadn't broken my word and—spoken first?” "I should have left you there—yes.” re plied Dick smiling. "But not to drown, dear, for see, the tide had turned and in another half hour you could have easily walked ashore.” "But I was so thankful when I saw you there, Dick,” said Doris, smiling up at him after a little pause. “I guess we both have got considerable to feel .thankful for tonight,” replied Dick, w'inking slyly at the moon. "I know I have.” (• • #•••#••*# ••*#••* #••• 0 ■*.#.•> #.«. 0 >•• 94.i.|.f4.0 ‘9*0 0*m*0 -w.0 0... 0 •«. 0 0 'W0 0 •••# # ••• 0 0 0 0 •*. 0 .«. 0 ••• 0 -f 0 •' •••.I ■•■•■•••••••• #•••••*• • 0-*-0-t-0-*-0-»-0-:0-:0 —0 *- 00»-m—-0 00»-0».0 Maturity of the HD mainsail swung down with a rattle as the white- ipainted yacht came up in the wind. With jib and forestall fluttering gently she lay at anchor in a tiny bay. it was one of those coves upon the southwest coast where the trees stand boldly out toward the waves, marking with a fringe of green the landward limit of the .beach. Mostyn Gainsford clambered up the narrow companion stbirs. The man who was lounging by the tiller regarded him doubtfully. “Clean ducks—and such pretty brown boots,” he mused. “Think it over, Mos tyn. Go down again. Change into something more prosaic and then you can join me in some beer. Good, hon est, unimaginative beer!" Gainsford was gazing shore-wards to ward where a roof gleamed through the trees. Ills countenance contracted' slightly. “Because one is about to marry,” he said, “Is that a reason to shudder at an Incident of the past? May 1 not remem ber a preiod that was—yes, the most In nocent and poetic of my lifetime?” “SuQh candor in an engaged man Is as admirable as it-Is rare,” returned the other. “But let me reassure you your words are already forgotten. “It was such a simple affair. ButtreU,” went on Gainsford unheeding. "She was one of those country girls one reads about but never sees. Peach-blossom cheek, milk-white hand—and a disposi tion! Perfectly pastoral! I saw what lay beneath—the girl had soul. I read to her, I talked, I gave her glimpses of the outside world—of Its better parts. I set myself to cultivate a mind latent with untold possibilities. It was a fas cinating pastime, I admit. It was as .he training of a pretty child. And vou would have it there Is harm in a Dar- donable curiosity to see the result of those endeavors of mine three years ago?” Luttrell shrugged his shoulders. “In these matters the question is not of right or wrong. The point hinges on the more Important lady’s mood should she chance to hear of It. Still, it's no business of mine.” Gainsford’s eyes sought the roof again. “It was an idyll,” he said. “Would you know the extent of our caresses? She pressed my hand, and only at the part ing. It was in token of gratitude. I be lieve, whereas I owed her more. To me it was a glimpse of purity that I treas ured.” ButtreU h'ad lit a qigar. He watched the flung match as it struck upon the smooth water. “I trust you will not find it a wild- goose chase,” he said. “And yet. per haps that would bo the best. Too tame a bird, you know, might spell complica tions.” “It is useless talking to you,” retorted Gainsford. “If she Is there still you shall come to see her with me. and then, per haps. you will understand.” The dingy, an oarsman within it. was waiting at the quarter. Gainsford step ped into it. A moment later the man was pulling him shoreward with quick st rokes. “Do not wait,” he told the man as the boat's nose slid, grinding upon the beach. “I shall be here some time. Stand by on board until you hear my whistle.” As he wtalked slowly along the path that led from the beach the old famil iarity with the surroundings was upon him once more. He had not thought to have remembered the spot so well. The scent of the May blossom came strongly to him. It seemed to him that the sweet ness of the perfume had killed three long years. Surely it was only yester day that he had trodden the verdure- lined path. His pulses tingled a little as he set eyes upon a large, flat stone set low down by the wayside. They had sat upon It so many times, he hand she. A voluptuous reverie was upon him. So pleasant was it that, submitting, he encouraged its thrill. lie let himself sink down upon the broad slab. It was here that he hau first met her. It was here that he had sung the ca dence of Wordsworth and Tennyson into her ears. He had marked the parted lips and the light that came and went In her eyes. It had been a pleasant fountain at which he had drunk. And the waters had bequeathed no bitter taste. She had ben efited; he had little doubt of that. Ho rose slowly and paced onward. He could see the cottage now, with its green shelter of oak and elm. He looked more closely. There was something strange about the biuldlng. There was an addi tion, the new whiteness of which stood out rather glaringly from the worn tint of the rest. He had drawn near to the main road that ran at right angles be tween the path and the cottage beyond when he heard the starting pants of an automobile. A brilliant red car went speeding up the road. Its throbbing jarred upon him; the wafted odor of petrol an nihilated with noisome brutality the scent of the May. A minute later he had crossed the road and was walking up a narrow garden path. He stared about him in growing unrest. In the place where had reveled a tangle of undergrowth and shrub was now a cleared space, ravel covered. Two- tables were there and a medley of chairs, while neare r to I he house stood a long bench. He seated himself upon the latter to await—whatever should occur. A very small infant came toddling toward him from round a corner of the building. The child held a plec» of jam-covered bread in his hand. As he pressed his small frame confidingly against Gainsford the jam left a red stain upon the white duck trousers. Gainsford, in his preoccupation, allowed the misfortune to pass almost unheeded. He looked up quickly at the sound of an exclamation. She herself, the one who had lived in his mind's eye. stood in the flesh before him. He stared for a while in dumb amazement. The tracings of her features, of he r form, ail this escaped him. He noticed but one thing—she wore f0—0 — 0-»-0.:0-—0 — 0.— 0+-0-»0-a-0*-0-—0-»-0—- a waitress’ cap and apron. There was a glad light in _her eyes as Gainsford's han'd went out toward her. Yet she was not the same. There had been a great change. As Is the way in such matters, he could not at first see whore It lay. But this much "was evi- Crown vs. Cupid By MURIEL A. ARMSTRONG. T was the hour of sunset aiirj tile calm of eventide wrapped the little world of Isehnwohld in its embrace. On this delightful Au gust evening, the town was en fete, ^t the Schloss. a reception was being held in honor of Prince Oscar's eightieth birthday, to which the American consul had procured invitations for many of the guests at the hotel. Toward 9 o'clock, the streets suddenly became ani mated and a gay throng of men and women, in carriages and on foot, might be seen wending their way to the now brilliantly lighted Schloss. An hour later, a tall, dark figure clad in flowing draperies emerged from the hotel and glided swiftly and gracefully down th e high street to the beach be low. On the beavh. the woman threw back the long dark cloak which had been so closely wrapped about her, disclosing a slender, graceful form, with a fair, girlish face above, full of youth and ^sentiment. She stood partly in the shadow of a great rock yet with the moonbeams falling di rectly on her, lending an added charm to her tender beauty,, And ^s she waited thus another figure came quickly across the sands toward her. She did not see the man approach, for her gaze was fixed on the distant hori zon veiled in shimmering mist. He came quite close to her. “Helen,” h e whispered softly, and she turned with a cry qf glad surprise, ex tending both hands toward him. ”1 was beginning to fear that your duties as aide de camp would prevent you from coming tonight,” she said, and as lie did not speak, she went on, “but, perhaps, 1 should not hav> written to tell you of our arrival until after this state function. Are you cross because I didn t wait, Carl?” “Not at all, my deaT girl,” replied the young German in English, which he spoke fluently. “I could not be cross with you if -I would. But tell me. Uebchen, why ar P you not at the pal ace tonight? I saw several of your people there with the American consul.” "My aunt wanted me to go, and I'm almost sorry now that I didn’t, since you regret having come here to see nte. ' The girl's answer was full of reproach, and the man felt how brutally cold he had been. “It is because you do not understand all that you say these things,” he said, throwing his arm passionately about her shoulders., "You have been constantly in my thoughts since that day I met you in Rome, at Signor Rosetti’s studio. Do you remember it, Helen?” “Yes, perfectly. I had been watching you from the window as you came along on tihe terrace below, and then I saw yon stop to speak to the ragged little flower girl with the basket of violets. Site was beautiful, (too, and as you talked to her so interestingly, I mentally com pared you to King Cophetua and the beggar maid. Then yom came in ,and tile old professor introduced us. He said we were his rival pupils in Italian, and after that we grew to be great friends, didn't we?” "Yes, great friends,” he answered, withdrawing his arm from her shoulders, ‘Ibu't why did you compare me to King Cophetua?” The gill shivered slightly as though suddenly struck by a cold breeze. “To be strictly truthful, I did 1 not stop to consider the adaptability of the similie, at the time. I was only a roman tic school girl out for my first holiday, and naturally my mind was alert to any thing unusual which might happen around me. Seeing a well dressed and apparently well bred young man con versing with a ragged yet (beautiful gill reminded me of the legend of King Co phetua and his beggar maid. Hence, you see, the comparison was but the fanciful creation of a romantic brain.” “Well done,” laughed Count Von Schreiner. “You have proved it like a proposition in Euclid.” But despite his jocularity there was a mirthlessness in his tones which grated on Helen Went worth’s ear. lie turned from her and looked out over the broad expanse of the sea, no longer tranquil, for the incoming tide was advancing and in a few moments would be at their feet. The pale light of the moon fell on his handsome figure wearing the uniform of the Isehnwohld army and showed to perfection the clear- cut outline of his profile. His usually firm mouth had relaxed into gentler curves and his whole expression was al most womanly in 1-ts tenderness. She thought of that April day In Rome on the hotel piazza overlooking the Tiber, when he had come to say goodlby. So this was their meeting, but he was no longer a boy and the old feeling of good comradeship had given place to an al most painfully constrained cordiality. “It is growing late and I must go back,” she sa'id at length. Her voice was soft and subdued, but he did not look at her. "What a pretty rose you are wearing. Carl! May I not have it as a memento of tonight?" He unfastened the rose from his coat and flung it into the sea, 'but instantly the girl stooped and rescued it. “Where are your good manners, Carl?” she asked, a mocking reproach in her tone. “Your temper is sadly out of re pair and you are tiresome tonight. Go Continued on Last Page. 0.».0.— 0.9.0+.0.».0.l.0+.0.». 0-t-0.,-0;-0.,.0.,.0. l dent, that where he had left a tremu lous snowdrop a firm-stalked sunflower now stood. “Well! I never did!” she cried. Gainsford experienced a sudden shiver. Her mode of expression had been more dTfTident In the old days, but her eyes were as pretty as ever. They were danc ing with pleasure now. "To think of Jt!” she exclaimed. “Why, it seems just like old times seeing you here!" Her hand was playing with the lace of her cap. Gainsford, gazing at her afre.sh. disagreed—inwardly, hut entirely—with her words. His thoughts went back to the shy, willow-figured girl with the large eyes and tremulous voice that he had known. “The place has changed," he began. He felt that his voice came from him with a horribly dead sound. “But the path was the same. I passed the stone—the stone where we—” She broke Into a little laugh. “Ah. that stone sees more folk than It used to.” lie was gazing hard at her. He won dered whether it was a fleeting blush that he saw upon her cheek. “Dots of people come here now,” she went on in answer to his mute inquiry; “it pays.” She eyed him with a sudden speculative look. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. lie attempted a faint return to gal lantry. “Your tea was always excellent,” he said. “It's better now.” she answered, “it's a shilling a head.” "Oh!” exclaimed Gainsford. The vendure and the wall of the house seemed to rock for a second before him. “A shilling—a head,” he repeated dully. “Cream Included,” she rejoined. She drew a little nearer. “It was the reading and the poetry that first put it into my head.” she con fided to ' im. “After you'd gone I’d get to thinking about the things you hart read and the ideas that came to me were something surprising. There was the one about the girl that was like a violet by a mossy stone that worried me more than all the rest put together. I thought—well, of all the lives. It was a kind of warning.” Gainsford felt it incumbent upon him to fill the gap. “I see,” he murmured untruthfully. “My goodness! What a fright I got in.” she continued. “It was the think ing that I might get that way myself that nearly drove me clean out of the place. Then Jim came along. He'd hart some experience as a waiter in London. It was after we’d got* married that we started the light refreshment business, and good tea, and good service—well, it pays nicely.” The infant was attacking Gainsford once more. A second jammy smear took its place by the side of the first upon his white trousers. Gainsford eyed the child • 0 '*■ 0'm-0 0 0 ■•■0 0 0-*'0 ••• 0 m‘0 0-**0.m. 0 in growing dislike. “Oh, Mostyn, you bad boy!” cried his mother In reproach. Gainsford looked lip quickly. “Mostyn?” he repeated. Tt was undoubtedly a blush that adorn ed her cheek this time. “We called him that,” she murmured, “because—” “Because of what?” “You see, if It hadn’t been for your kindness T might have been gawking on in just the same old way. Jim and I have never forgotten that. So when he came wo called him Mostyn. Sometimes after we’ve had a good day's business Jim'lt take him on his knee and call him a little living token of gratitude. But it's only right that you should see Jim. Jim!” she called. A second later a white-aproned man stood before Gainsford. Gainsford un derwent an inward struggle. Then he •held out his hand. The act was a con cession to the unity of man and wife. The latter hastened away to perform the duties of her office. The child was still gyrating slowly about the pair. The man bent toward it. “Mossy!” he said, “run away after your mother.” Gainsford shivered. Mossy! It was the last straw. “It’s a fine afternoon, sir,” said Jim. “The atmosphere of this r*ice is not what it was,” returned Gainsford. “It's wonderful healthy,” protested Jim. Just then his wife returned with the tea tray. The desire of flight, possessed Gainsford. Heedless of the probabilities, he pleaded indisposition. “Of course,” he concluded, “I'll pay for the tea.” Jim’s eyes wavered diffidently between the tea tray and the visitor. “There's no getting away from the fact that it was prepared speshul,” he admitted. “But seein’ as it's you, sir, supposing we say sixpence instead of a shilling?” His wife’s fine eyes glowed in appro bation. Gainsford drew a half crown from his pocket. He swallowed once or twice ere he spoke. "Give the change to—to—Mossy,” he said. The final word was his sacrifice to the ashes of what once had been a glorious spiritual edifice. "No, you need not come back with me,” Gainsford assured Luttrell, upon his return to the small craft; “the fact is that the one I expected to find was not there.” “Ah, it's just as well,” returned Lut- trell. “These little dippings into the past are either dangerous or bitterly disappointing. I heard from a man who had been there that there is an excellent tea place in the neighborhood. Shall we go?” “Not for worlds!” said Gainsford. “Son see I happen to have been in there once already this afternoon.” *