“No, it isn’t ‘of course’ and it’s not only at first. It’s for always. Most girls talk their love affairs to tatters. I’ve noticed that. I want you to help me to—to keep my—” Her voice went out upon a sudden flood of tears. Hildegarde drew her into the window-seat and sat down beside her. They were silent for a time, until Bella laid her wet face down on her friend’s shoulder with, “Mind, Hildegarde! We aren’t to talk about it. Not even you and I. John Galbraith is too—too—” She raised her head, drew her small hand across her eyes, and then sprang up and faced the window, as if some enemy without had challenged her. “It may be that I _don’t_ understand what a great man he is, as Mr. Borisoff says. But, at least, I know he’s not the sort of person to be chattered over.” Hildegarde remembered with a sting how for years she had “chattered” with Galbraith for her theme. And she hadn’t little Bella’s excuse. Yes, it was always like this. She was for ever stumbling upon something dignified and fine in Butterfly Bella. The pretty tear-stained face was lifted to the sunlight, and the childish red mouth, so used to laughter, was pitifully grave, as Bella, staring up into the square of sky over Hildegarde’s head said: “He is up there!” “Jack!” Hildegarde exclaimed in a half-whisper. “John Galbraith,” said Bella. “He is way up there, and I won’t be the one to pull him down.” “Oh-h. I was half afraid you meant he was dead.” “As good as dead.” Fear took fresh hold on the older girl. He is going to marry some one else, Hildegarde said to herself. Yes, yes; as she looked at poor Bella’s face, she was sure of it. And now the slim little figure had sunk on its knees. She leaned against her friend for support. But she looked out across Hildegarde’s shoulder, searching space through tears. Hildegarde held tight the childish-looking hands, and asked the last question she was ever to put about the common hero of their girlhood. “Where is he?” she said. “He’s gone off with Mr. Borisoff somewhere.” “You mean you don’t know where?” “Somewhere in the arctic.” She hid her face in Hildegarde’s lap. They sat so a long, long time. * * * * * In spite of her year’s absence, Bella found nothing much changed in the Valdivia situation, except that the Mar boys had “got on” more than ever, and that their father’s form of progress seemed still more strikingly to consist in “getting on” in years.