The bundle which resulted was bulky, but Carrigan sang as he raced back. He drew his horse to a walk as he approached the During hotel, for a light showed dimly from the dining-room; there might be some new arrival in the place. It was only Jac, however. She sat by the table with her face buried in her arms. He saw one hand lying palm up beside her head. It was small and the fingers tapered. “I never noticed she was so small,” said Carrigan to himself in a hushed voice. He stepped closer, softly. “Jest a kid,” he added. There was the sound of a controlled sob; her body quivered; and Carrigan knew that she was struggling with some great grief. “Cinderella!” he called gently and touched her shoulder. Her head turned. Two marvelously deep-blue eyes shone up to him. Her lower lip was trembling; but when she saw him she stiffened with astonishment. “What do you want?” she asked. “A beautiful girl, five feet five and a half, one hundred and twenty pounds.” “Carrigan!” she stammered. “Is it really you?” He dropped the bundle to the floor and turned slowly. “Look me over.” “Wonderful!” She had dropped into a chair and sat pigeon-toed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her mouth slightly agape. “Carrigan, how did you do it?” “Look in that bundle and you’ll see.” He left the room hastily, but before he had gone far he heard a thin, short cry. Happiness and pain are closely akin. “If she only--” began Carrigan. He choked. “If this was only a masked ball,” he said at last, “she might get by. But even then that hair--” He swore softly again. “If Maurie turns her down after this--I’ll bust his face wide open.” He thought of Gordon’s wide shoulders and sighed. After a time a voice called from the house: “Carrigan!” It was a marvelous voice. It was changed as the tone of a violin changes when it passes from the hands of an amateur to those of an artist. “Is that my name?” said Carrigan, and he walked slowly toward the house. She stood in the center of the room, with a piece of the wrapping-paper in which the bundle had been done up held before her face. Carrigan started back until his shoulders touched the wall. “My God!” he murmured with indescribable awe. “They fit!” “But--” she said behind the paper. “Well?” She lowered the paper. The freckles looked out at him--and the eyes with plaintive brows raised by the hard knot of the hair. At the base of her throat was a line of sharp division. All above was a healthy brown. All below was a dazzling white. He could not meet the despair of her eyes. “Well?” she said. “Well?” said Carrigan. “I didn’t choose this face,” she explained sadly. “It was wished on me!” Carrigan sank into a chair and looked upon her as a general looks over a field of battle and calculates the chances of his outnumbered army. His eyes fell to the slender feet in the shining bronze slippers, with the small, round ankles incased in pleasant green.