"Where the apple reddens do not pry,
Lest we lose our Eden--you and I."

The couplet was quite unfamiliar to Stanton, but it rhymed sickeningly
through his brain all night long like the consciousness of an
over-drawn bank account.

It was the very next morning after this that all the Boston papers
flaunted Cornelia's aristocratic young portrait on their front pages
with the striking, large-type announcement that "One of Boston's
Fairest Debutantes Makes a Daring Rescue in Florida waters. Hotel Cook
Capsized from Row Boat Owes His Life to the Pluck and Endurance--etc.,
etc."

With a great sob in his throat and every pulse pounding, Stanton lay
and read the infinite details of the really splendid story; a group of
young girls dallying on the Pier; a shrill cry from the bay; the
sudden panic-stricken helplessness of the spectators, and then with
equal suddenness the plunge of a single, feminine figure into the
water; the long hard swim; the furious struggle; the final victory.
Stingingly, as though it had been fairly branded into his eyes, he
saw the vision of Cornelia's heroic young face battling above the
horrible, dragging-down depths of the bay. The bravery, the risk, the
ghastly chances of a less fortunate ending, sent shiver after shiver
through his already tortured senses. All the loving thoughts in his
nature fairly leaped to do tribute to Cornelia. "Yes!" he reasoned,
"Cornelia was made like that! No matter what the cost to herself--no
matter what was the price--Cornelia would never, never fail to do her
_duty_!" When he thought of the weary, lagging, riskful weeks that
were still to ensue before he should actually see Cornelia again, he