Rutledge was flying to her before she was fairly prone. He spoke to her and tried to help her up. She made no answer, and her hand and arm were limp. "Elise!" he said, with fear in his voice. Still no answer. He took her in his arms and made directly up the hill for the front door. "Elise," he whispered fearfully again. "Oh, my heart, speak to me!" Her cheek was against his shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, as he prayerfully kissed the snow-white part visible even in that darkness. Her head dropped limply back, and a sigh came from her lips so close to his. Still she answered not his call. He loved her very much and—he kissed her again, softly, where the long lashes lay upon her cheek, and—"Elise!" he murmured appealingly. She turned her face feebly away from him, like a child restless in sleep. He had not delayed his climb to the house. "Here!" he cried. "Get Dr. Sheldon quick! Miss Phillips is dangerously hurt!" There were excited screams among the women and a stir among the men as he carried his burden across the piazza and into the wide hall. There in the full light he saw—Miss Elise Phillips talking quietly to Donald MacLane. He almost let fall the woman in his arms. He looked again at her face. She was Lola DeVale. Dr. Sheldon and Lola’s mother fortunately were at hand. At their direction Rutledge carried the young woman up the stairs and laid her on a couch in her sitting-room. She opened her eyes and smiled languidly at him as he put her down. Elise and all the other young people knew of Rutledge’s mistake as to Lola’s identity, but Elise could not understand why he blushed so furiously as he gave her an account of the mishap. * * * * * At her next _tête-à-tête_ with Rutledge Lola gave him her very sincerest thanks and—laughed at him till he was uncomfortable. Finally she said: "You are a very gallant but a very mercenary knight, Mr. Rutledge." Rutledge was hopelessly confused. Lola continued, mischief in her eyes: "Alas! the spirit of commercialism has pervaded even Southern Chivalry, and forlorn maidens must pay as they go." Rutledge was plainly resentful. "Now I am very unselfish, Mr. Rutledge, and—I wish it _had_ been Elise." Her mischief dissolved in a confiding smile, full of sympathy,—and Rutledge was very humble. Lola DeVale’s sympathy was warm and irresistible, and before he was aware he was telling her of his love for Elise in a way to set her interest a-tingle. "Why don’t you tell her of it?" asked Lola. "Tell her that it just overwhelms all earlier loves." "Earlier loves? I never loved any other woman," Rutledge answered. "Oh, of course not." Lola could scarcely repress a smile at the thought that a man always swears only his last passion is genuine. "But tell her—tell her!" she repeated. "I have told her." "When?" "Three years ago." "Plainly? or with artistic indirectness?" "Plainly."