And far uptown another sat with the same paper in her hand. Barbara Harding was glancing through the sporting sheet in search of the scores of yesterday's woman's golf tournament. And as she searched her eyes suddenly became riveted upon the picture of a giant man, and she forgot about tournaments and low scores. Hastily she searched the heads and text until she came upon the name--“'Sailor' Byrne!” Yes! It must be he. Greedily she read and re-read all that had been written about him. Yes, she, Barbara Harding, scion of an aristocratic house--ultra-society girl, read and re-read the accounts of a brutal prize fight. A half hour later a messenger boy found “Sailor” Byrne the center of an admiring throng in Professor Cassidy's third-floor gymnasium. With worshiping eyes taking in his new hero from head to foot the youth handed Byrne a note. He stood staring at the heavy weight until he had perused it. “Any answer?” he asked. “No answer, kid,” replied Byrne, “that I can't take myself,” and he tossed a dollar to the worshiping boy. An hour later Billy Byrne was ascending the broad, white steps that led to the entrance of Anthony Harding's New York house. The servant who answered his ring eyed him suspiciously, for Billy Byrne still dressed like a teamster on holiday. He had no card! “Tell Miss Harding that Mr. Byrne has come,” he said. The servant left him standing in the hallway, and started to ascend the great staircase, but halfway up he met Miss Harding coming down. “Never mind, Smith,” she said. “I am expecting Mr. Byrne,” and then seeing that the fellow had not seated her visitor she added, “He is a very dear friend.” Smith faded quickly from the scene. “Billy!” cried the girl, rushing toward him with out-stretched hands. “O Billy, we thought you were dead. How long have you been here? Why haven't you been to see me?” Byrne hesitated. A great, mad hope had been surging through his being since he had read of the broken engagement and received the girl's note. And now in her eyes, in her whole attitude, he could read, as unmistakably as though her lips had formed the words that he had not hoped in vain. But some strange influence had seemed suddenly to come to work upon him. Even in the brief moment of his entrance into the magnificence of Anthony Harding's home he had felt a strange little stricture of the throat--a choking, half-suffocating sensation. The attitude of the servant, the splendor of the furnishings, the stateliness of the great hall, and the apartments opening upon it--all had whispered to him that he did not “belong.” And now Barbara, clothed in some wondrous foreign creation, belied by her very appearance the expression that suffused her eyes. No, Billy Byrne, the mucker, did not belong there. Nor ever could he belong, more than Barbara ever could have “belonged” on Grand Avenue. And Billy Byrne knew it now. His heart went cold. The bottom seemed suddenly to have dropped out of his life.