He laughed. “Discreet second thought, eh?” “No, I’m not afraid, with you,” she replied quietly. “But I don’t care to go again.” A pause, then she continued: “I must go back to the hotel. I leave to-day.” “And we to-morrow. It is a shame. I wish you’d let me—” “No, Mr. Bruce, not for anything,” she returned earnestly. “Let Mr. Derwent take care of it, and—if we meet again here, will you kindly not talk to me?” “Just as you say. I will go back to the hotel with you now; but this is our good-by. Give me both your hands, Rosalie.” She obeyed. Their eyes met. She colored richly, looking like an embodiment of the morning as she stood against the sombre green of the stately pines. Freedom was before her: freedom to live, and to work, with the knowledge that she was no longer alone in the world. That was cause enough for the happiness that shone in her eyes; but that was not filling her thoughts to overflowing while Irving clasped her rough little hands close. It was the remembrance of the pounding terror of his heart in the moment when they had clung together on the dizzy rock. “Don’t forget, Rosalie. I am your ally.” She stood silent, her starry gaze not dropping before his. “Friendship is going to mean a great deal to us,” he went on. “I feel it. Remember; for— “‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’” CHAPTER XVIII HOMEWARD BOUND WHEN Betsy Foster awoke that morning she was full of excitement. She assisted Mrs. Bruce as usual with her toilet, and at the first possible moment hastened to the apartment of her contraband protégée. She found Rosalie in her cheap traveling dress of golden brown, and with her hat on. She was sitting before a table on which was a breakfast-tray, and she was sipping coffee. “That’s right, Betsy. Come and see the lay-over,” she said. “I feel still as if I needed identification.” The night before, her supper had been served in the same way and place by Mr. Derwent’s order, and he and Betsy had, unsuspected, spent an hour here with the girl, planning her movements, and allowing her new benefactor to become somewhat acquainted with his old friend’s daughter. Mr. Derwent had no desire to stir up questioning, and there was every chance now that Rosalie would get off by the morning stage without being observed. “Is it really I, Betsy, sitting here and being waited on like this, and being cared for by such adorable people?” The girl had risen on Betsy’s entrance, and embraced her, pressing her fresh cheek against the thin one where a bright spot burned. “Now, now, you can hug me a fortnight hence,” said Betsy. “Sit down and finish your breakfast.” She glanced at the bed. The coverings were neatly laid over the foot-board, and the pillows were plump and smooth. “How did you sleep, child?” she continued as Rosalie returned to her coffee. “The pillows look as if you hadn’t touched ’em.” “I don’t always use a pillow,” returned the girl evasively.