she said.

``So Victor--Victor Dorn--says,'' laughed Selma. ``He says I'm
too confiding. Well--why not? And really, he trusts everybody,
too--except with the cause. Then he's--he's''--she glanced from
face to face of the four pictures--``he's like those men.''

Jane's glance followed Selma's. She said: ``Yes--I should
imagine so--from what I've heard.'' She startled, flushed, hid
behind a somewhat constrained manner. ``Will you come up to my
house to lunch?''

``If I can find time,'' said Selma. ``But I'd rather come and
take you for a walk. I have to walk two hours every day. It's
the only thing that'll keep my head clear.''

``When will you come?--to-morrow?''

``Is nine o'clock too early?''

Jane reflected that her father left for business at half-past
eight. ``Nine to-morrow,'' she said. ``Good- by again.''

As she was mounting her horse, she saw ``the Cossack girl,'' as
she was calling her, writing away at the window hardly three feet
above the level of Jane's head when she was mounted, so low was
the first story of the battered old frame house. But Selma did
not see her; she was all intent upon the writing. ``She's
forgotten me already,'' thought Jane with a pang of jealous
vanity. She added: ``But SHE has SOMETHING to think about-- she