evening? If so, you are please not to stop for tea, but go directly to
the Sachem's Gate. Redmond will guide you, sir."

[Illustration: "'This is one of those rare occasions ... where goodness
is amply ... rewarded.'"]

"All right, Howker," said Duane absently; and strolled on along the
hall, thinking of Mrs. Dysart.

The front doors swung wide, opening on the Long Terrace, which looked
out across a valley a hundred feet below, where a small lake glimmered
as still as a mirror against a background of golden willows and low
green mountains.

There were a number of young people pretending to take tea on the
terrace; and some took it, and others took other things. He knew them
all, and went forward to greet them. Geraldine Seagrave, a new and
bewitching coat of tan tinting cheek and neck, held out her hand with
all the engaging frankness of earlier days. Her clasp was firm, cool,
and nervously cordial--the old confident affection of childhood once
more.

"I am _so_ glad you came, Duane. I've really missed you." And sweeping
the little circle with an eager glance; "You know everybody, I think.
The Dysarts have not yet appeared, and Scott is down at the Gate Lodge.
Come and sit by me, Duane."

Two or three girls extended their hands to him--Sylvia Quest, shy and
quiet; Muriel Wye, white-skinned, black-haired, red-lipped, red-cheeked,
with eyes like melted sapphires and the expression of a reckless saint;