Silence fell between them. It was broken by the man’s long sigh. He looked around the room. “This used to be your mother’s chamber, wasn’t it, Madge—before she had the house done over? It was in this room I met you first.” “You—as you are now, Gordon—were never that hot-headed little boor. Not only do I refuse to admit it, but I can’t conceive it. You’ve changed so, Gordon. You’re not the same fellow at all.” He laughed a depreciating laugh. “Well,” he said philosophically, “if that’s true, you know what I told you down in Boston a while ago. You and you alone have been responsible. ‘You made me what I am to-day—I hope you’re satisfied.’” And once more he laughed. But it was plain the laugh did not come from his heart. “How long have we known each other, Gord? Let’s see, I’m tweny-seven this spring and I was eleven when mother brought me here and gave me this home; that’s sixteen years ago! It doesn’t seem possible—sixteen years! How time slips away!” Gordon leaned forward toward her, elbows on his knees. “Madelaine,” he asked suddenly, sincerely, “are you happy—really happy?” “Why do you ask me such a question, Gord? Of course I’m happy! After all I’ve had done for me, why shouldn’t I be happy?” “There seem to be times—forgive me, Madge, if I’m rude—but there seem to be times when I fancy you’re not. I don’t know exactly what it is—an expression on your face, perhaps, a glance of your eye—I could almost believe you were secretly grieving over something, dear. Isn’t it so?” The girl felt the springs of emotion beginning to well deep in her spirit. She averted her face. She looked down at her hands, laced together suddenly and tightly in her lap. “You know, Gordon, I’ve always had a slight mist of tragedy hovering over me, never knowing who my parents were, how I came to be found as I was. A woman could never quite forget that, especially when strangers have been kind to her and tried to treat her like their own.” “I like that pretty little fantasy associated with you as a girl, Madge. I mean about the fairies leaving you for earthly persons to discover. It makes you very sweet and rare, Madelaine. To me you will ever be that—a fine and tender woman, brought to earth in babyhood by the fairies!” “Gordon! Please—don’t!” “How can I help it, Madelaine? Every man must have some sweet, rare, fine, tender woman in his life, mustn’t he—to work for—to please—to bring out the best that’s in him? And having been that to me, how can I help telling you so, dear girl?” “I’ve just been—myself!” the girl responded huskily. “Yourself! Yes! Thank God for that! Yourself! Madge, does a woman ever realize what she can mean to a man sometimes—who loves her because she has given him a goal and a promise—of still finer things to be—and faith—the essence of things hoped for, but not seen?”