“Fancy being the power behind the throne, the victorious rival in a scene like this, Master Kit! I’ve always thought you a nice lad, Christopher, but I never expected to see you before the public, which does not suspect your glory, the scorner of such a creature as yonder splendid Helen; the victor over the winner of the laurels which muses and men bestow! Is it possible that I ever bought you copper-toed boots, and ordered mutton tallow on your properly scornful nose!” she said. The fourth act followed, a worthy climax to the play, and when the final curtain was rung down on “The Guerdon” Richard’s triumph was complete. His box was full of flowers, masses of roses and orchids bearing bits of cardboard, each with a well-known name engraved on it. “Too bad this isn’t a church!” observed little Anne, to whom flowers and altars were synonymous. “I’ll send them all to the nearest church in your name, little Anne!” declared Richard. “Now you and Ted come with me to the manager’s room. I’m going to bid you good-bye there. Kit and Miss Dallas are coming. They will not come to my supper of celebration, and you’re too small to sup with me. So we’ll part, to meet again in Cleavedge in the spring.” “Oh, me!” sighed little Anne. “Nothing keeps right on. Heaven is best. I don’t want you to go!” Richard and Ted Wilberforce, with little Anne, went to the manager’s room. Anne and Kit were waiting there. Richard took Kit’s outstretched hand in both of his and held it. They talked earnestly for a few minutes, while Ted talked to his cousin. Anne was nervously fighting back her tears and Ted was evidently reassuring her. Richard turned from Kit and crossed over to her. “We are the only ones who know how much of ‛The Guerdon’ is yours, patient little collaborator!” he said. “I shall not see you till spring. Ted and I have decided upon Rome in February. Then Cleavedge for us both! Will you make a room for me in the new home which you’re to begin at Easter? Kit says ‛Yes!’ Will Kit’s wife also welcome me?” “Oh, dear Richard, who so beloved or so welcome?” Anne cried. “Good-bye, then, for a time. I am content. What a night! And how much of it due to you! I’m a lucky poet! Good-bye, dearest of women.” Richard took Anne’s hand, held it for a moment, then relinquished it, laying it down amid the folds of her skirt with a tiny smile. But his lips had grown white, and the movement was like laying down a dead, not a living hand. The three adults watching him knew that he then bade farewell forever to Anne Dallas, whom he should always love. Then he turned to little Anne. “And good-bye to you, little Anne, darling, but only for a half year!” he said. He stooped to kiss her, but little Anne threw her arms around him with such a tempestuous embrace that he raised her, clinging to his neck, to his breast. “If only nothing ever changed!” she sobbed. “What shall I bring you from Rome, dear child? I’ll be back when May comes to Cleavedge.”