"I will get them back, yes! I only lost them when the devil in me drove me mad." "And bye and bye, try to believe that although one cannot make the unreal real, still there are some foolish people that think they can--and be kind to such people. Help them, do not hurt them." "Will you--take my hand?" Raymond stretched his own forth. "Why--of course--and tell you that I am glad, oh, so glad because--you have come back! Glad because it was I not another who saw that other you--for I can forget it!" "And--and we are--to see each other some day?" This came hopefully. "Some day--as we left ourselves--back before this?" "Some day--some day? Perhaps. If we do--we will understand better than we did then." "Yes. We'll understand some things." Raymond bent and touched Joan's hand with his lips and went quickly from the room. He was conscious of passing, on the stairs, a wet and draggled young woman, but he did not pause to see the frightened look she cast upon him. A moment later Joan raised her head from the pillow on which she was weeping the weakest--and the strongest--tears of her life. "Oh! Pat," she sobbed. "Oh! Pat." Patricia came to the couch and sat down. She was thinking fast and hard. Life had not been make-believe to Patricia; she had builded whatever towers had been hers with hard facts. She drew wrong and bitter conclusions now--but she dealt with them divinely. "You poor kid," she whispered, "and I left you--to this. I! Joan, I told you not to trust men. It's when you trust them that you get hurt. "Listen, you poor little lamb, I felt you calling me, tugging at me. The storm delayed me, or I would have been here sooner. Joan, I had nearly run off the track myself--it was the thought of you that got me. I kept remembering that night you made the little dinner for me--no one had ever taken care of me like that--and, child, I've accepted that job in Chicago. If I go alone, remembering that dinner you got for me, I don't know what I'll do. Come with me, Joan, will you? No man in the world is worth such tears as these. You don't have to tell _me_ anything. We'll begin anew. You'll have your music--I'll have my work--and we'll have a dinner every night." Patricia was shivering in her wet clothing. Joan put her arms about her. At that moment nothing so much appealed to her as to get away--get away to think and make sure of herself. Get away from the place where her idols lay shattered. "Yes, Pat. I will go. But"--and here she took Patricia's face in her hot palms--"don't you believe that any man can be trusted?" "No, I don't. It isn't their fault. They are not made for trust--they're made to do things." "Pat, you're all wrong. It's girls like you and me that cannot be trusted. I--I didn't know myself that was the trouble. Pat--you mustn't--think what you are thinking--you are mistaken." "I saw him--on the stairs," gasped Patricia. "Suppose you did?" "Joan, do you know what time it is?"