still studying singing, I believe. She gets the rent from two flats
I have there. But she never writes. And that," he finished grimly,
"is the last chapter of my history."

Sidney still stood close to him, earnest, fragrant, lovely, in her
white gown. And even above the troubled tumult of his thoughts Barry
had time to think how honest, how unaffected she was, to stand so,
making no attempt to disguise the confusion in her own mind. For a
long time there was no sound but the vague stir of the night about
them, the faint breath of some wandering breeze, the rustling flight
of some small animal in the dark, the far-hushed, village sounds.

"Thank you, Barry," Sidney said at length. "I'm sorry. I am glad you
told me. Good-night."

"Good-night," he said almost inaudibly. He ran down the steps and
plunged into the dark avenue without a backward look. Sidney turned
slowly, and slowly entered the dimly lighted hall, and shut the
door.




CHAPTER XI

"Come down here--we're down by the river!" called Mrs. Burgoyne,
from the shade of the river bank, where she and Mrs. Lloyd were busy
with their sewing. "The American History section is entertaining the
club."