insists that Arthur has forfeited his rights and that the amount withheld should be paid to him now; but his conduct has been such that I feel I should serve him ill to pay him so large a sum of money. Moreover, I owe something to his daughter—to Helen. Owing to her father's reckless life I have had her make her home with me for several years. She is a noble girl, and very beautiful—you must have seen, Mr. Donovan, that she is an unusually beautiful girl."

"Yes," I assented.

"And better than that," she said with feeling, "she is a very lovely character."

I nodded, touched to see how completely Helen Holbrook filled and satisfied her aunt's life. Miss Pat continued her story.

"My brother first sought to frighten me into a settlement by menacing my own peace; and now he includes Helen in his animosity. My house at Stamford was set on fire a month ago; then thieves entered it and I was obliged to leave. We arranged to go abroad, but when we got to the steamer we found Henry waiting with a threat to follow us if I did not accede to his demands. It was Father Stoddard who suggested this place, and we came by a circuitous route, pausing here and there to see whether we were followed. We were in the Adirondacks for a week, then we went into Canada, crossed the lake to Cleveland and finally came on here. You can imagine how distressing—how wretched all this has been."

"Yes; it is a sad story, Miss Holbrook. But you are not likely to be molested here. You have a lake on one side, a high wall shuts off the road, and I beg you to accept me as your near neighbor and protector. The servants at Mr. Glenarm's house have been with him for several years and are undoubtedly trustworthy. It is not likely that your brother will find you here, but if he should—we will deal with that situation when the time comes!"

"You are very reassuring; no doubt we shall not need to call on you. And I hope you understand," she continued anxiously, "that it is not to keep the money that I wish to avoid my brother; that if it were wise to make this further division at this time and it were for his good, I should be glad to give him all—every penny of it."

"Pardon me, but the other brother—he has not made similar demands—you do not fear him?" I inquired with some hesitation.

"To—no!" And a tremulous smile played about her lips. "Poor Arthur! He must be dead. He ran away after the bank failure and I have never heard from him since. He and Henry were very unlike, and I always felt more closely attached to Arthur. He was not brilliant, like Henry; he was gentle and quiet in his ways, and father was often impatient with him. Henry has been very bitter toward Arthur and has appealed to me on the score of Arthur's ill-doing. It took all his own fortune, he says, to save Arthur and the family name from dishonor."

She was remarkably composed throughout this recital, and I marveled at her more and more. Now, after a moment's silence, she turned to me with a smile.

"We have been annoyed in another way. It is so ridiculous that I hesitate to tell you of it—"

"Pray do not—you need tell me nothing more, Miss Holbrook."

"It is best for you to know. My niece has been annoyed the past year by the attentions of a young man whom she greatly dislikes and whose persistence distresses her very much indeed."

"Well, he can hardly find her here; and if he should—"

Miss Holbrook folded her arms upon her knees and smiled, bending toward me. The loveliness of her hair, which she wore parted and brushed back at the temples, struck me for the first time. The brown—I was sure it had been brown!—had yielded to white—there was no gray about it; it was the soft white of summer clouds.

"Oh!" she exclaimed; "he isn't a violent person, Mr. Donovan. He's silly, absurd, idiotic! You need fear no violence from him."

"And of course your niece is not interested—he's not a fellow to appeal to her imagination."

"That is quite true; and then in our present unhappy circumstances, with her father hanging over her like a menace, marriage is far from her thoughts. She feels that even if she were attached to a man and wished to marry, she could not. I wish she did not feel so; I should be glad to see her married and settled in her own home. These difficulties can not last always; but while they continue we are practically exiles. Helen has taken it all splendidly, and her loyalty to me is beyond anything I could ask. It's a very dreadful thing, as you can understand, for brother and sister and father and child to be arrayed against one another."

I wished to guide the talk into cheerfuller channels before leaving. Miss Pat seemed amused by the thought of the unwelcome suitor, and I determined to leave her with some word in reference to him.

"If a strange knight in quest of a lady comes riding through the wood, how shall I know him? What valorous words are written on his shield, and does he carry a lance or a suit-case?"

"He is the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance," said Miss Holbrook in my own key, as she rose. "You would know him anywhere by his clothes and the remarkable language he uses. He is not to be taken very seriously—that's the trouble with him! But I have been afraid that he and my brother might join hands in the pursuit of us."

"But the Sorrowful Knight would not advance his interests by that—he could only injure his cause!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, he has no subtlety; he's a very foolish person; he blunders at windmills with quixotic ardor. You understand, of course, that our troubles are not known widely. We used to be a family of some dignity,"—and Miss Patricia drew herself up a trifle and looked me straight in the eyes—"and I hope still for happier years."

"Won't you please say good night to Miss Holbrook for me?" I said, my hand on the door.

And then an odd thing happened. I was about to take my departure through the front hall when I remembered a short cut to the Glenarm gate from the rear of the school. I walked the length of the parlor to a door that would, I knew, give ready exit to the open. I bowed to Miss Pat, who stood erect, serene, adorable, in the room that was now touched with the first shadows of waning day, and her slight figure was so eloquent of pathos, her smile so brave, that I bowed again, with a reverence I already felt for her.

Then as I flung the door open and stepped into the hall I heard the soft swish of skirts, a light furtive step, and caught a glimpse—or could have sworn I did—of white. There was only one Sister in the house, and a few servants; it seemed incredible that they could be eavesdropping upon this guest of the house. I crossed a narrow hall, found the rear door, and passed out into the park. Something prompted me to turn when I had taken a dozen steps toward the Glenarm gate. The vines on the gray stone buildings were cool to the eye with their green that hung like a tapestry from eaves to earth. And suddenly, as though she came out of the ivied wall itself, Helen Holbrook appeared on the little balcony opening from one of the first-floor rooms, rested the tips of her fingers on the green vine-clasped rail, and, seeing me, bowed and smiled.

She was gowned in white, with a scarlet ribbon at her throat, and the green wall vividly accented and heightened her outline. I stood, staring like a fool for what seemed a century of heart-beats as she flashed forth there, out of what seemed a sheer depth of masonry; then she turned her bead slightly, as though in disdain of me, and looked off toward the lake. I had uncovered at sight of her, and found, when I gained the broad hall at Glenarm House, that I still carried my hat.

An hour later, as I dined in solitary state, that white figure was still present before me; and I could not help wondering, though the thought angered me, whether that graceful head had been bent against the closed door of the parlor at St. Agatha's, and (if such were the fact) why Helen Holbrook, who clearly enjoyed the full