he saw Ransom come blundering in through the palms, mopping his
red face and chattering inane things to little Miss Meesen. Ransom
was always blundering. This time his blunder saved Philip. The
passionate words died on his lips; and when Ransom and Miss Meesen
turned about in a giggling flutter, he spoke no words of love, but
opened up his heart to this girl whom he would have loved if she
had been like her eyes. It was his last hope--that she would
understand him, see with him the emptiness of his life, sympathize
with him.

And she had laughed at him!

She had risen to her feet; there had come for an instant a flash
like that of fire in her eyes; her voice trembled a little when
she spoke. There was resentment in the poise of her white
shoulders as Ransom's voice came to them in a loud laugh from
behind the palms; her red lips showed disdain and anger. She hated
Ransom for breaking in; she despised Philip for allowing the
interruption to tear away her triumph. Her own betrayal of herself
was like tonic to Philip. He laughed joyously when he was alone
out in the cool night air. Ransom never knew why Philip hunted him
out and shook his fat hand so warmly at parting.

Philip again felt himself in the fever of that night as he turned
from the rock and began picking his way down the side of the ridge
toward the Bay. He found himself wondering what had become of
good-natured, dense-headed Ransom, who had all he could do to
spend his father's allowance. From Ransom his thoughts turned to
little Harry Dell, Roscoe, big Dan Philips, and three or four
others who had sacrificed their hearts at Miss Brokaw's feet. He