THREE years later Bassett and Anne had a friend at dinner. He was a writer who had just returned from a successful lecture tour in Australia. On his way back he had ranged through the pleasant reaches of the South Seas and had fallen under their spell--a little more money in his pocket and for him it would be a plantation on some isle of enchantment. Not the accessible places, they were already spoiled, steamers had come, jazz music, and tourists in pith helmets with red guidebooks were under your feet. It was the remoter islands, still out of the line of travel, where a trading schooner was the sole link with the world. He had made a point of visiting some of these--hired an old tub with a native crew and gone batting about and had a glimpse of the real thing that Stevenson saw. And he enlarged on a particular island, the endmost of a scattered group, where he had found an American and his wife running a copra plantation. Delightful people called Whittier, he’d stayed several days with them in a long bamboo house on the edge of a lagoon--you couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful. Anne smiled at his enthusiasm and said she thought such a life might pall, especially on the lady. But he was convinced of the contrary, in fact Mrs. Whittier had told him she never wanted to come back, she couldn’t stand the futile strain and bustle of the world. And it was not as if she were a person unused to the refinements of life, she was a pretty intelligent woman, cultivated and fond of the arts, especially the theater. She had asked him any amount of questions about plays and players--said it had been the thing she loved most in the old days. But she didn’t regret it; she had told him she regretted nothing but the separation from her friends. After dinner, moving about in the sitting-room, the guest had stopped before a photograph standing on a side-table, picked it up and asked whose it was. Bassett had answered--a friend of his wife, now dead. But he would remember--it was Sybil Saunders who had met with such a tragic death some years ago. The guest nodded; of course he remembered, a horrible affair. Then after a last look at the photograph he turned to Anne: “It’s like that Mrs. Whittier I was telling you about. Just the same eyes--quite remarkably like, only she’s a bit stouter and more mature. It might have been her picture when she was a girl.” When the evening was over Bassett escorted the guest to the door. On his way back to the sitting-room he thought he would suggest to Anne that she put away the photograph--people noticed it and the subject kept coming up. It was evidently unbearably painful to her for she rarely spoke of it; that dark chapter in her life was a thing closed and sealed. He had the words on his lips as he entered the room and then saw that she held the picture in her hands and was looking intently at it, softly smiling, her expression tranquil, even happy. That was good--the wound had healed--so he said nothing. THE END