When he came down-stairs he found her dressed in white and looking like a nun. Her hair was brushed back from her forehead and the silk-figured Japanese shawl was over her shoulders. He recalled the shawl and with it the picture she had made that first night.

At the door he called her name and she looked up quickly, swiftly scanning his face. He crossed to her side.

"You should n\'t stay in here," he said. "Come outdoors a moment before breakfast. It\'s bright and warm out there."

She arose, and they went out together to the lawn. Each blade of grass was wearing its morning jewels. The sun petted them and bestowed opals, amethysts, and rubies upon them. The hedge was as fresh as if newly created; the neighboring houses appeared as though a Dutch housewife had washed them down and sanded them; the sky was a perfect jewel cut by the Master hand. The peeping and chattering of the swallows was music, while a robin or two added a longer note to the sharp staccatos.

They stood in the deep porch looking out at it, while the sun showered them with warmth.

"You \'ve seen Ben?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, turning her face up to his with momentary brightness. "Yes. And he was like this out here! The change is wonderful! It is as though he had risen from the dead!"

Donaldson lifted his head toward the stark blue of the sky.

"The dead? There are no dead," he exclaimed passionately. "Even those we bury are ever ready to open their silent lips to us if only we give them life again. We owe it to them to do that, through our own lives to continue as best we can their lives here on earth. But we can\'t do that as long as we have them dead, can we? And that is true of dead hopes, of dead loves. We have to face the sun with all those things and through it breathe into them a new spirit. Do you see, Miss Arsdale?"

He did not look at her, but as her voice answered him it seemed to be stronger.

"I think—I think I do."

"Nothing can die, unless we let it die," he ran on, paving the way for what he realized she must in the end know. "Some of it can disappear from our sight. But not much. We can bury our dead, but we need n\'t bury their glad smiles, we need n\'t bury the feel of their hands or the brush of their lips, we need n\'t bury their songs or the brave spirit of them. We can keep all that, the living part of them, so long as our own spirit lives. It is when that dies in us that we truly bury them. And this is even truer of our loves—intangible spirit things as they are at best."

He did not wish that part of him to die utterly in her with his doomed frame.

"But—" she shivered, "all this talk of graves and the dead?"

"It is all of the sun and the living," he replied earnestly. "You must face the sun with me to-day. Will you?"

"Yes! Yes! But last night you made me afraid. Was it the dark,—did you get afraid of the dark? I know what that means."

"Perhaps," he answered gently. "But if so, it was because I was foolish enough to let it be dark. And you yourself must never do it again. If things get bad at night you must wait until morning and then come out here. So, if you remember what I have said, it will get light again. Will you promise to do that?"

"Yes."

"I \'d like to make this day one that we \'ll both remember forever. I \'d like to make it one that we can always turn back to."

"Yes."

"Perhaps after to-day we \'ll neither of us be afraid of the dark again."

"I \'m not afraid now."

"Nor I," he smiled.

The voice of Arsdale came to them,

"Oh, Elaine! Oh, Donaldson!"

She led the way into the house with a lighter step and Arsdale met them with a beaming face which covered a broad grin.

"I suppose you two can do without food," he exclaimed, "but I can\'t. Breakfast has been waiting ten minutes."

"It\'s my fault," apologized Donaldson.

"You can\'t see stars in the morning, can you?" chuckled Arsdale.

"Maybe," answered Donaldson.

Elaine checked the boy\'s further comments with a frightened pressure as she took his arm and passed into the white and green breakfast room.

There stood the table by the big warm window again, and as she took her place it seemed as though they were stepping into the same picture framed by the hedge. She caught Donaldson\'s eye with a little smile and saw that he understood.

Arsdale broke in with renewed enthusiasm for his philanthropic project and outlined his ambitions to Elaine.

"You see," he concluded, "some day, little sister, you may see the law sign \'Donaldson & Arsdale, Counsellors at Law.\' Not a bad sounding firm name, eh?"

"I think it is great—just great, Ben!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "It\'s almost worth being a man to make your life count for something like that."

"I want you to make out a list of books for me to get and I \'ll go down-town this afternoon. I suppose you \'ve a pretty good law library yourself?"

"I had the beginning of one. I sold it."

"What did you do that for?"

"My practice was n\'t big enough to support it. But you—you \'ll not be bothered with lack of clients."

With school-boy eagerness Arsdale was anxious to plunge into the scheme at once.

"And say," he ran on, "I \'m going to look up some offices. I \'ll stake the firm to some good imposing rooms in one of the big law buildings. Nothing like looking prosperous at the start. Guess I \'ll drop down-town right after breakfast and see what can be had."

Donaldson didn\'t have the heart to check him. Later on he would write him a letter sustaining him in his project and recommending him to a classmate of his, to whom this partnership would be a godsend, as, a week ago, it would have been to himself. That was the best he could think of at the moment and so he let him rattle on.

As soon as they had finished breakfast Arsdale was off.

"I \'ll leave you two to hunt out new stars as long as that occupation does n\'t seem to bore you. I \'ll be back for dinner."

Miss Arsdale looked a bit worried and questioned Donaldson with her eyes.

"He \'ll be all right," the latter assured her. "Good Lord, a man with an idea like that is safe anywhere. It\'s the best thing in the world for him."

A little later Donaldson went up-stairs to his room. He took out his wallet and counted his money. He had over four hundred dollars. At noon forty-eight hours would be remaining to him. He still had the ample means of a millionaire for his few needs.

He was as cool as a man computing what he could spend on a summer vacation. He was not affected in the slightest by the details of death or by the mere act of dying itself. He was of the stuff which in a righteous cause leads a man to face a rifle with a smile. He would have made a good soldier. The end meant nothing horrible in itself. It meant only the relinquishing of this bright sky and that still choicer gift below.

He rose abruptly and came down-stairs again to the girl, impatient at being away from her a minute. She was waiting for him.

"This," he said, "is to be our holiday. I think we had better go into the country. I should like to go back to Cranton. Is it too far?"

"Not too far," she answered. "But the memories of the bungalow—"

"I had forgotten about that. It does n\'t count with the green fields, does it? We can avoid the house, but I should like to visit the orchard and ride behind the old white horse again."

"I am willing," she replied.

"Then you will have to get ready quickly."

They had just time to catch the train and before they knew it they were there.

The old white horse was at the little land-office station to meet them for all the world as though he had been expecting them, and so, for that matter, were the winding white road, the stile by the lane, and the orchard itself. It was as though they had been waiting for them ever since their last visit and were out ready to greet them.

The driver nodded to them as if they were old friends.

"Guess ye did n\'t find no spooks there after all," he remarked.

"Not a spook. Any more been seen there since?"

"H\'ain\'t heern of none. Maybe ye took off the cuss."

"I hope so."

They dismissed the driver at the lane and then went back a little way so as to avoid the bungalow. Donaldson was in the best of spirits, for at the end of the first hour he had solaced himself with the belief that Arsdale had been mistaken in his statement. She was nothing but a glad hearted companion in look and speech. They sat down a moment in the orchard and he was very tender of her, very careful into what trend he let their thoughts run. But soon he moved on again. He needed to be active. It was the walk back through the fields to which he had looked forward.

They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there to admire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope.

To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, that any act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had never been. It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never know again the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate pictures as now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should be blind to the girl herself and all for which she stood. No matter how long the journey he was about to take, no matter through what new spheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained. So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this da............