took his bath. The sun shone. What a full, happy world
it was, anyhow! And he had given up the game last night?
Why, life was just beginning for him! He was nothing but
a boy--not yet thirty. He would make a big success soon,
and then try to win--to win---- He stopped, breathless,
looking into the distance, and his eyes slowly grew wet
with passion and longing.

He left the house and struck across the country through
the woodland and farms. He did not know why he went--he
had to go. When he reached the Dunbar woods, he stood in
the thicket for hours, watching the house. She came out
at last and sat down on the steps to play with the dog.
Last night in her white, delicate beauty she had not
seemed real--she was far off, like an angel coming down
into his depths of misery.

But to-day she sat on the steps in her pretty blue gown,
and laughed and rolled Tramp over, and sung snatches of
songs, and was nothing but a foolish girl. For so many
years he had been thinking of work and money-making and
bosses. All of that mean drudgery fell out of sight now.
He was a man, young, alone, on fire with hope and
passion. His share of life had been mean and pinched;
yonder was youth and gladness and tranquillity. The
world was empty, save for themselves. He was here, and
there was the one woman in it--the one woman.

He looked at his tanned, rough fingers. Last night she
had folded them in her two soft little hands, and drawn