into his, her smile reproaching him. In the familiar tone of
an old and dear friend she said to him gently:

"This is the day you planned for me. Don't you think you've
wasted quite enough of it?"

Sam looked back into the eyes, and saw in them no trace of
laughter or of mockery, but, instead, gentle reproof and
appeal--and something else that, in turn, begged of him to be
gentle.

For a moment, too disturbed to speak, he looked at her,
miserably, remorsefully.

"It's not Anita Flagg at all," he said. "It's Sister Anne
come back to life again!" The girl shook her head.

"No; it's Anita Flagg. I'm not a bit like the girl you
thought you met and I did say all the, things Holworthy told
you I said; but that was before I understood--before I read
what you wrote about Sister Anne--about the kind of me you
thought you'd met. When I read that I knew what sort of a man
you were. I knew you had been really kind and gentle, and I
knew you had dug out something that I did not know was
there--that no one else had found. And I remembered how you
called me Sister. I mean the way you said it. And I wanted to
hear it again. I wanted you to say it."

She lifted her face to his. She was very near him--so near
that her shoulder brushed against his arm. In the box above