"Papa," said Gertrude, extending her other hand to Avery, "I do think that Mr. Avery is to be congratulated that he has the splendid courage to try to do something distinctly useful for other people, than simply for the few of us who are outside or above most of the horrors of life. I do--" Avery suddenly lifted her hand to his lips, and his eyes told the rest. "Mr. Foster," he said, still holding the girl's hand, and blushing painfully, "there can never be but one horror in the world too awful for me to face, and that would be to lose the full respect and confidence of your daughter. I know I have those now, and for the rest --" He glanced again at Gertrude. She was pale, and she was looking with an appeal in her eyes to her mother. Mrs. Foster moved a step nearer, and put her arm about the girl. "For the rest, Mr. Avery, for the rest--later on, later on," she said, kindly. "Gertrude has traveled very fast these past few months, but she is her mother's girl yet." Then she smiled kindly, and added: "Gertrude has set a terrible standard for the man she will care for. I tremble for him and I tremble for her." "Tut, tut," said her father, "there are no standards in love--none whatever. Love has its own way, and standards crumble--" "In the past, perhaps. But in the future--" began his wife. "In the future," said Gertrude, as she drew nearer to her mother, "in the future they may not need to crumble, because,--because--" Her eyes met Avery's, and fell. She saw that his muscles were tense, and his face was unhappy. "Because men will be great enough and true enough to rise to the ideals, and not need to crumble the ideals to bring them to their level." Avery bent forward and grasped her hand that was within her mother's. "Thank you," he said, tremulously. "Thank you, oh, darling! and the rest can wait," he said, to Mrs. Poster, and dropping both hands, he left the room and the house. Gertrude ran up-stairs and locked her door. Mr. Foster turned to his wife with a half amused, half vexed face. "Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish. What's to become of Martin, I'd like to know?" "John Martin has never had a ghost of a chance at any time--never," said his wife, slowly trailing her gown over the rug, and dragging with it a small stand that had caught its carved claw in the lace. It toppled and fell with a crash. The beautiful vase it had held was in fragments. "Oh, Katharine!" exclaimed her husband, springing forward to disengage her lace. "Oh, it is too bad, isn't it?"