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long while too late, that money doesn't really amount to much—that love is the only thing that matters."

She stood up, and Jock from his seat on the steps raised his eyes blankly to her white set face. "Just one more thing I want to tell you," she said. "I've left him, I left him in California, to come here and tell this to you, and I've moved from his apartment, and tomorrow I'm going to get rid of his car. I—I'd just like to have you know that I'll never belong to him again, even if—even if you don't want me——"

Jock gave a harsh, unintelligible cry then, and got to his feet. But she would not let him speak. "No, don't. I want you to think, before you say anything. I'm going to leave you for a little while, so you can. And bye and bye, when you've made up your mind—come and tell me—I'll be waiting——"

A minute later he was alone on the porch of the cottage called Paradise.

"First," he thought, "I've got to make myself realize."

He sat down again, with his back against a post, and crossed his arms on his up-propped knees and looked straight ahead. He gave his imagination full play. He goaded it deliberately, and made it, unwilling, listen at doors and peep through keyholes. . . . And suddenly anguish smote him like a bolt, searing his every nerve. He shut his eyes tight, as though by this gesture he would erase the visions of his mind. He groaned, and dropped his forehead to rest on his crossed arms. And so for a time he sat still as stone,