"But I haven’t the faintest notion of abandoning you," Janet had replied. "I believe I can lead a fuller, freer, more active life away from mother’s apron strings, that’s all. Of course I want to see the family from time to time. I could come on short visits—" Emily had assured her, not without a trace of exultation, that Mrs. Barr would never hear of such a cool arrangement. Either the prodigal daughter returned once and for all, or the family would treat her as dead. "Really! But how you’ll miss the funeral!" Janet had wickedly exclaimed. At which Emily had put on her gloves. All later messages sent by Janet to her mother in an effort to put their mutual relations on a more reasonable footing had been severely ignored. The only communications she had received were growingly infrequent notes from her father, and these contained nothing but the same old appeals—sentimental, pathetic, fatuous. *III* The doorbell startled her out of her long, melancholy reverie. She flew to the threshold, and in came Claude! She had proposed to treat him coolly at their next meeting. But his return was as sudden as it was unexpected. And he was Claude, the same Claude with the same striking appearance, the same telling voice, the same handsome face. Instantly, the magnetic spark that had darted from one to the other at the Outlaws’ Ball made its swift, poignant, thrilling leap between them again. Though words were superfluous, Claude, as he clasped her in a passionate embrace, murmured: "Janet, darling, forgive me. I was a beast to write a letter like that." "Confession is good for the soul," said Janet, laughing and trying to release her head. "Are you angry? Well, you ought to be. And I ought to grovel in the dust at your feet. You are a saint to forgive me, and I should be ashamed to accept forgiveness if I hadn’t suffered. Yes, Janet, I’ve suffered cruelly. I never had so keen a grief and I never so thoroughly deserved one. But I’m nearly ill with worry." He _did_ look pale, nor did it hurt his cause that pallor became him. Besides, his apologies were as overwhelming as his fits of temper. How could the poor girl help forgiving him? And so Janet, who but a few minutes before had been considering (mock-heroically to be sure) sundry historic forms of self-slaughter, now forgot all about jumping off Brooklyn Bridge, etc., and poured a heavenly compassion on Claude. "Something happened in Huntington," she said. "Something serious. Does it involve me? I want you to tell me straight."