"Don't, Helen!" answered the girl, somewhat incoherently. But Helen laughed gayly, and when the next act was over and the actor came again for a few minutes, he found her whispering very mysteriously to her mother. She nodded at him, and went on confiding something to her mother's ear. George Fox had gone out, so there was no one to speak to but Kathleen--trembling Kathleen--who blushed warmly when he came to her side, and murmured, tremulously: "I want to thank you for--for last summer. It was so good of you, so noble, to risk your life for a--a stranger." "Pray do not speak of it; it was nothing. I ran no risk; I am a good swimmer," he replied, a little stiffly. But Kathleen went on, in that tremulous voice: "I--I have always remembered you with gratitude--always longed to see you again, that I might thank you from my heart for your goodness. Papa, too, wanted to see you. Why did you go away so suddenly?" Where was the arrogance, the indifference on which Alpine had expatiated? The sweet lips trembled; there was dew on the curling black lashes that shaded the splendid, luring black eyes. When Ralph Chainey had gazed into them a moment, he turned away his head like one dazzled by too much sunlight. "Why did you go away so suddenly?" she repeated; and then he said: "It was because I am an actor, Miss Carew. If I had stayed to receive your thanks, and disclosed my identity, the story would have got into the newspapers, and people would have said I did it to get some free advertising. Your name would have gone all over the country as the heroine of the rescue. You would not have liked the publicity, perhaps; and so I hurried away." "It was very good of you to think of that," she answered, simply; then added hastily, for the minutes were passing, and she knew he must soon return to the stage again: "Mr. Chainey, Alpine told me what she had told you this afternoon. It was--was--a joke on her part. I _did_ recognize you last night as soon as I saw you. I told her who you were. She was jesting, believe me for I--I could not--be so ungrateful as to forget your face so soon." It was time for him to go. He rose and held out his hand. "Thank you," he said, in his deep, sweet voice, pressing her hand warmly. His magnetic brown eyes gazed deep into hers, and he murmured, inaudibly to the others: "It was the happiest moment I ever knew when I saved your life!" Then he was gone. From the stage she met his eyes twice fixed on her, as if he could not resist the temptation of looking. When George Fox put them all into their carriage, he came out, still in his stage costume, to say good-night. He held her hand just a moment longer than Helen's, and he whispered: "I hope we shall meet again." His eyes, his words, his thrilling hand-clasp, haunted the motherless girl that night in the mystical land of dreams. She arose early, after a rather restless night, and her first thought was that she had no morning-dress.