“When I was a boy of thirteen or so, and Dora was about eight, we used to play together. Even at that age I had an eye for beauty, and she was the prettiest child that ever lived. We called ourselves sweethearts. Her old father used to get us to sit for him in his studio, and he would talk to us as only such a beautiful soul could to children. He used to sigh and say that she would be a pauper, and that I would grow up a prince, for an artist could not leave his daughter money, and my father was said to be well-to-do. Even at that early age I denied the possibility of such a thing making any difference between her and me, and when she grew up into such beautiful girlhood, and was studying art under her father, I determined to make something of myself, aside from the inheritance which was to come to me. So I went in for medicine and surgery, and she kept to art, saying that she would earn a living for her parents when they became old. But he died away off in Paris, whither his dreams led him, while I was at college, and when I came home I found that she had grown away from me. It was a great blow, for I had been constantly thinking of her. To me she was the very glory of her sex, and it was mostly her influence that made me what I am. I have seen many women since then, but never her equal from any point of view. I went with her occasionally after that, but it was more to become accustomed to her loss than in the hope of winning her regard. Then the awful, unmentionable thing came out. You know what I mean. That man had won her confidence, won her heart--how, God only knows, but he had--and dealt her a back-handed blow, and left her helpless, miserable. I tried then, harder than ever, to tear her image out of my heart, but I couldn't. My professional duties called me into the saddened home to which no other soul was admitted. I saw that even in her blighted womanhood she was fulfilling every promise given by her youth. Instead of sinking lower, she was blooming like a flower under snow. I suppose I shall go through the rest of my life with her personality woven into the very warp and woof of my being. But knowing her has strengthened and broadened me. She is beautiful, pure, and spiritual--God's denial of the social law held over her. Only shallow men judge women by physical mistakes made in the unselfish purity of over-confidence. She will never call on me for the aid I'd gladly give, and I can't insult her strange widowhood by offering it. She has her heart set on going to Paris to live and study, as her father did. She thinks she can bury herself there before Lionel is old enough to realize his condition, and that he may never know the truth. It is a beautiful dream, but it can never be realized.” A horse and buggy stopped at the gate, and Doctor Beaman, who was driving, leaned over and called out, excitedly: “I'm fifteen minutes late, Wynn; you may miss the train. Hurry! hurry!”