"Mr. Morton, you said that in spite of all we should be friends; let me claim my privilege at once. I'm sure I'm right in believing that you're overwrought and morbid, from the strange experiences you have just passed through. Do not add to your exhaustion by starting off on another aimless walk to-day; though you may think it might lead you to a better fate, it cannot bring you to those who care so deeply for you. We'll be merry, true-hearted friends after we've had time to rest and think it all over." "True-hearted, anyway," I said emphatically. "What's more, I'll be sane when we meet again--entirely matter-of-fact, indeed, since I already foresee that I shall be troubled by no more days of fate. Good-by now; go and sleep the sleep of the just; I'll rest quietly here;" and I held out my hand. She took it in both of hers, and said gently: "Mr. Morton, I believe you saved my--our lives last night." "I had some hand in it--yes, that should be happiness enough. I'll make it answer; but never speak of it again." "When I cease to think of it I shall cease to think at all," she said, in strong emphasis; and with a lingering wistful glance she passed slowly in and up the winding stairway. I watched her as I would a ship that had left me on a desolate rock. "She is one that could not change if she would," I thought. "It's all over. No matter; possibly I saved her life." I sat down again in a rustic chair on the piazza, too miserable and disheartened to do more than endure the pain of my disappointment. Indeed there was nothing else to do, for seemingly I had set my heart on the impossible. Her words and manner had made but one impression--that she had given her love and faith to an earlier and more fortunate suitor.