Now Sheriff Madison died, and as the girl was without friends or relatives, I took her into my home as a member of the family, satisfied to have such a rare and beauteous creature under my care, and glad of my vested power to keep Lance at a distance. But it came too late; I noticed her abstraction, then saw tears in her eyes, and, long before my professional knowledge told me, I guessed that Lance had won. There was a stormy scene when I met him, upbraided him, and appealed to his manhood, and was met by flippant philosophy, ridicule, and defiance. In that talk I caught him by the throat and only relinquished my grip as I realized that his death would not avail. He must marry her, I thought, and that thought saved his miserable life. He went out, angry at me and insistent that his position was justified by human experience. He went on a yachting trip soon after, and before he came back I read in the New York papers of a rescue at sea. The yacht _Sylph_, cruising, with owner on board, had come upon the dismantled wreck of the bark _Holyoke_, Captain John Dunbar, and rescued all hands at the moment of sinking. A feature of the rescue was the plunging into the sea of Mr. George Lance, owner of the yacht, and his saving the life of Captain Dunbar, who had remained until the last, and who, hampered by his oilskins would have drowned in the turmoil caused by the sinking hull, but for the heroic action of Mr. Lance. I read this to Miss Madison. She was pleased at Lance's heroism, but expressed no interest in Captain Dunbar, the last to leave his sinking ship. Shortly after, Dunbar came home and his first visit was to me. With all my predilection to think well of him I was more than surprised, and agreeably so. I had last seen him in a cell, a convict, a jail-bird, with the prison pallor on his face and the prison flavor in his soul. He stood before me now a big, broad-shouldered, handsome fellow of twenty-eight, with dark, curly hair, a dark, sunburned face, a cheery, optimistic smile, and a voice that rang with suppressed laughter. His diction was faultless; he had read and studied deeply. He used words and phrases only at the command of educated men. Had I not known his antecedents I would have pronounced him a university graduate; yet I knew that he was John Dunbar, a self-made man, and I approved of his handiwork. I introduced him to Miss Madison. His attitude toward her was that of a religious devotee in the presence of an idol. Hers was that of a woman wearied of life and life's ideals. She did not know him--did not realize that this big, splendid man was a product of her own creation--a failure, inspired by her beautiful face and a few kind words toward effort, struggle, and victory. Dunbar was a success; he had made it so, and nothing could take it from him. But she did not know, and I could not tell her now.