“Stop brooding over it,” advised Cis, out of her complete ignorance. “There’s not a man born worth worrying over. Set it down to experience, and quit thinking of it.” Jeanette looked at her wondering, then a faint smile passed over her face, hardly more than the shadow of one, but Cis rejoiced in it. “That’s good advice, dear,” she said quietly. “But if you have poured yourself, all of yourself, your life and all its parts, into one vessel and it is broken--how do you go on, how gather it all up, into what? Tell me this, brave, wise, ignorant Cicely Adair! Don’t love anyone, Cicely; it hurts!” “Well,” said Cicely, “I hope I sha’n’t. I like people lots, but I never wanted anyone so I lay awake five minutes wanting them. I must go now. You’ve been mighty good to me. I was afraid you might almost hate me. I think I could love you.” “You could love someone, and find it as hard as I do; you are the sort that can love,” said Jeanette. “I think I’m fond of you, Cicely Adair. I’m too numb to feel anything but the one pain that absorbs me, but I’m sure I’m fond of you. Father will send that letter to you to-morrow. I’m glad it’s to be Beaconhite, where he can introduce you, but I’m sorry, sorry you are suffering through me.” “Not a bit of it! I love to go, honest! I was brought up by strangers; my mother died long ago; I live in lodgings; what’s the difference? Good-bye, you dear, dear, lovely Miss Lucas! Go to sleep; you look all in. When I think I made you look like that----” Jeanette shook her head, and took both of Cicely’s hands. “It was a blessed deed, dear,” she said. “I sent for you to tell you I’m grateful; not to thank you, because I can’t. We are friends, Cicely. We can’t be parting for always; we have been drawn too close. Will you let me know what happens to you, if letters aren’t too burdensome to you?” “I’ll tell you, if you care,” said Cis. “Good-bye.” Jeanette followed Cis to the head of the stairs, and rang for the maid to show her out. Cis looked back, smiling up and waving her hand half-way down. Jeanette leaned over the broad mahogany rail, her soft silken negligée drawn around her, her eyes burning in their pallid setting, her dark hair loosely shading her face, her white lips pitifully pulled into a smile for Cicely. Cicely, boyish, unscathed by suffering or desire, yet knew that the girl, Jeanette Lucas, whom she had idealized, had died under that surgery by which she had cut off from her what would have slain her. Cis walked slowly down the street, pondering the mystery of this contradictory truth. CHAPTER IV TRANSPLANTING Cis spent her last night before setting out to try her fortune, Sunday night, with Nan in the Dowling, pleasant, somewhat crowded little house.