More swiftly now came the transfiguration of the world, shell-pink and gold stained the sky; then a blaze of dazzling light cut the wooded crests opposite as the thin knife-rim of the sun glittered above the trees. All the world rang out with song now; the river mists lifted and curled and floated upward in silvery shreds disclosing golden shoals and pebbled rapids all criss-crossed with the rosy lattice of the sun. The girl at his side leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "What would all this have meant without you?" she sighed. "The world turned very dark for me yesterday. And it was the blackest night I ever knew." "And for me," he said; "—I had no further interest in living." "Nor I.... I wanted to die last night.... I prayed I might.... I nearly did die—with happiness—when I heard your voice over the wire. That was all that mattered in the world—your voice calling me—out of the depths—dearest—dearest——" With her waist closely enlaced, he turned and looked deep into her grey eyes—clear, sweet eyes tinged with the lilac-grey of iris bloom. "The world is just beginning for us," he said. "This is the dawn of our first morning on earth." The slender girl in his arms lifted her face toward his. Both her hands crept up around his neck. The air around them rang with the storm of bird music bursting from every thicket, confusing, almost stunning their ears with its heavenly tumult. But within the house there was another clamour which they did not hear—the reiterated ringing of the telephone. They did not hear it, standing there in the golden glory of the sunrise, with the young world awaking all around them and the birds’ ecstacy overwhelming every sound save the reckless laughter of the river. But, in the dim house, Helen awoke in her bed, listening. And after she had listened a while she sprang up, slipped out into the dark hall, and unhooked the receiver from the hinge. And after she had heard what the distant voice had to say she wrote it down on the pad of paper hanging by the receiver—wrote it, shivering there in the darkened hall: Oswald Grismer, on his way last night to visit you at Runner’s Rest, was killed by the third rail in the Grand Central Station. He was identified by letters. Harry Belter was notified, and has taken charge of the body. There is no doubt that it was entirely accidental. Mr. Grismer’s suit-case evidently fell to the track, and, attempting to recover it, he came into contact with the charged rail and was killed instantly. MARIE CLIFF BELTER. When she had written it down, she went to Stephanie’s room and found it empty. But through the open window sunshine streamed, and presently she saw the red-cloaked figure down by the river’s edge; heard the girl’s sweet laughter float out among the willows—enchanting, gay, care-free laughter, where she had waded out into the shallow rapids and now stood knee-deep, challenging her lover to follow her if he dared.