man who had sold himself. That species of sixth sense which lies
undeveloped at the back of our minds during the ordinary happenings of
life wakes sometimes in moments of keen emotion. At its highest, it is
prophecy; at its lowest, a vague presentiment. It woke in Betty now.
There was no particular reason why she should have connected her
stepfather's words with John. The term he had used was an elastic one.
Among the visitors to the island there were probably several Harvard
men. But somehow she knew.

"Who is he?" she cried. "What was his name before he--when he--?"

"His name?" said Mr. Scobell. "John Maude. Maude was his mother's name.
She was a Miss Westley. Here, where are you going?"

Betty was walking slowly toward the door. Something in her face checked
Mr. Scobell.

"I want to think," she said quietly. "I'm going out."

* * * * *

In days of old, in the age of legend, omens warned heroes of impending
doom. But to-day the gods have grown weary, and we rush unsuspecting on
our fate. No owl hooted, no thunder rolled from the blue sky as John
went up the path to meet the white dress that gleamed between the
trees.

His heart was singing within him. She had come. She had not forgotten,
or changed her mind, or willfully abandoned him. His mood lightened
swiftly. Humility vanished. He was not such an outcast, after all. He