For a moment the shimmering veil of estrangement which so long had hung between them, seemed to part, and reveal soul to soul. As swiftly the mood changed and Dorothy felt it first, like a chill mist in the air. Neither dreamed that with the writing of the first paragraph in the book, the spell had claimed one of them for ever--that cobweb after cobweb, of gossamer fineness, should make a fabric never to be broken; that on one side of it should stand a man who had exchanged his dreams for realities and his realities for dreams, and on the other, a woman, blindly hurt, eternally straining to see beyond the veil. "What can we do?" asked Harlan, unwontedly practical for the nonce. "I don't know," said Dorothy. "There are the diamonds, you know, that we found. I don't care for any diamonds, except the one you gave me. If we could sell those----" "Dorothy, don't. I don't believe they're ours, and if they were, they shouldn't be sold. You should keep them." "My engagement ring, then," suggested Dorothy, her lips trembling. "That's ours." "Don't be foolish," said Harlan, a little roughly. "I'll finish this and then we'll see what's to be done." Feeling her dismissal, Dorothy went out, and, all unknowingly, straight into the sunshine. Elaine was coming downstairs, fresh and sweet as the morning itself. "Am I too late to have any breakfast, Mrs. Carr?" she asked, gaily. "I know I don't deserve any." "Of course you shall have breakfast. I'll see to it." Elaine took her place at the table and Dorothy, reluctant to put further strain on the frail bond that anchored Mrs. Smithers to her service, brought in the breakfast herself. "You're so good to me," said the girl, gratefully, as Dorothy poured out a cup of steaming coffee. "To think how beautiful you've been to me, when I never saw either one of you in my whole life, till I came here ill and broken-hearted! See what you've made of me--see how well and strong I am!" Swiftly, Dorothy bent and kissed Elaine, a strange, shadowy cloud for ever lifted from her heart. She had not known how heavy it was nor how charged with foreboding, until it was gone. "I want to do something for you," Elaine went on, laughing to hide the mist in her eyes, "and I've just thought what I can do. My mother had some beautiful old mahogany furniture, just loads of it, and some wonderful laces, and I'm going to divide with you." "No, you're not," returned Dorothy, warmly. She felt that Elaine had already given her enough. "It isn't meant for payment, Mrs. Carr," the girl went on, her big blue eyes fixed upon Dorothy, "but you're to take it from me just as I've taken this lovely Summer from you. You took in a stranger, weak and helpless and half-crazed with grief, and you've made her into a happy woman again." Before Dorothy could answer, Dick lounged in, frankly sleepy. "Second call in the dining car?" he asked, taking Mrs. Dodd's place, across the table from Elaine.