Jack tried to lift his head: “What is her message?” he asked with expectant eyes--perhaps she had sent him a letter! Miss Felicia tapped her bosom with her forefinger. “ME!” she cried, “I am her message. She was so worried last night when she found out how ill you were that I promised her to come and comfort you; that is why it is ME. And now, don't you think you ought to get down on your knees and thank her? Why, you don't seem a bit pleased!” “And she sent you to me--because--because--she was GRATEFUL that I saved her father's life?” he asked in a bewildered tone. “Of course--why shouldn't she be; is there anything else you can give her she would value as much as her father's life, you conceited young Jackanapes?” She had the pin through the butterfly now and was watching it squirm; not maliciously--she was never malicious. He would get over the prick, she knew. It might help him in the end, really. “No, I suppose not,” he replied simply, as he sank back on his pillow and turned his bruised face toward the wall. For some moments he lay in deep thought. The last half-hour in the arbor under the palms came back to him; the tones of Ruth's voice; the casual way in which she returned his devouring glance. She didn't love him; never had loved him; wouldn't ever love him. Anybody could carry another fellow out on his back; was done every day by firemen and life-savers,--everybody, in fact, who happened to be around when their services were most needed. Grateful! Of course the rescued people and their friends were grateful until they forgot all about it, as they were sure to do the next day, or week, or month. Gratitude was not what he wanted. It was love. That was the way he felt; that was the way he would always feel. He who loved every hair on Ruth's beautiful head, loved her wonderful hands, loved her darling feet, loved the very ground on which she walked “Gratitude!” eh! That was the word his uncle had used the day he slammed the door of his private office in his face. “Common gratitude, damn you, Jack, ought to put more sense in your head,” as though one ought to have been “grateful” for a seat at a gambling table and two rooms in a house supported by its profits. Garry had said “gratitude,” too, and so had Corinne, and all the rest of them. Peter had never talked gratitude; dear Peter, who had done more for him than anybody in the world except his own father. Peter wanted his love if he wanted anything, and that was what he was going to give him--big, broad, all-absorbing LOVE. And he did love him. Even his wrinkled hands, so soft and white, and his glistening head, and his dabs of gray whiskers, and his sweet, firm, human mouth were precious to him. Peter--his friend, his father, his comrade! Could he ever insult him by such a mean, cowardly feeling as gratitude? And was the woman he loved as he loved nothing else in life--was she--was Ruth going to belittle their relations with the same substitute? It was a big pin, that which Miss