“I don’t know,” answered the other, troubled. A silence fell between them. Galpin whittled a pencil to so careful and delicate a point that it immediately broke. He repeated the experiment with like result before he spoke. “Say, Jem.” The other looked up, attentive. Seldom, since their new relationship had the older man employed any formula of address other than the half-jocular, half-official, “Boss.” “Say it, Andy.” “Who are you making this paper for?” Across the editor’s face passed a swift shock, as of thought surprised and betrayed. “Making it for?” he said slowly. “Ay-ah. For yourself, I guess. Huh?” “Yes.” “And it don’t suit?” “Not altogether.” “Not good enough?” “No.” “Ay-ah. I see.” One of those extraordinary flashes of intuitive insight which sometimes pass electrically between surcharged and kindred minds, culminated in the general manager’s next question. “What does she think of it?” “Who?” The startled counter-question represented less than Jeremy’s normal frankness. Andy rose and stood above the other. “How should I know who? If I did I’d know more about the paper.” “You’re right.” For the moment Jeremy was as intuitive as his friend. “You think it would have been more honest of me, as I’m making a paper for some one else, to let you in on it.” “What does she think of The Guardian?” persisted Andy. Jeremy stared out into the gray and bleak spaces. “God knows,” he said. “I’ve no way of finding out.” Andy turned and went to the door. “Forget it,” he said. The tone was his sufficient apology. ***** That night of June, 1914, two years after Marcia Ames’s lips had pressed themselves to his cheek, and he had felt her sobbing breath on his face, Jeremy went again to the bridge where they had stood. A barge filled with young people passed the turn of the lake. A canoe bearing a boy and a girl--how young they seemed to lonely Jeremy, and how enviable!--floated beneath him, and their speech came up to him, dim, tender, and murmurous. Then, sped by a poignant magic, the blended voices of Marcia’s song were wafted to him across the waters: “Who wins his love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain, And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain!” He could hear in the distance the faint plash of the oars that drove the boat of song. The fairy voices, fainter, sang: “He loses her who gains her, Who watches, day by day, The dust of time...” The words were blurred as the unseen boat passed behind some unseen cape; then the music died on the breeze. Jeremy bent over the railing, where Marcia’s hand had rested. *****