showed in the girl’s face, and while of her mere good looks alone there could be no question, in seeming paradox, the more one looked at her the more one forgot her mere prettiness, granting it carelessly enough as something secondary, so much more uncommon and striking were the other qualities written there—strength and sympathy and above all, that holy and beautiful thing before which any man may well stand in reverent admiration—the innate goodness of the true woman, pure in thought and deed.

As he took her hand, Helmar’s face showed his surprise. “Well, Marjory Graham,” he cried, “who’d have thought of seeing you?”

Laughingly the girl mimicked him. “Why, Franz Helmar,” she said in turn, “you’re not the one to be surprised. You knew I lived in Eversley. But what are you doing out here?”

“Old Mr. Carleton,” he answered, “he’s a little under the weather. I ran out to see how he was getting along.”

The girl’s face clouded. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s such a dear old man. And he’s my father’s greatest friend, you know. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Helmar shook his head. “No, I think not,” he answered, “he’ll be all right—for this time. And he is a first-class old chap, too. Do you know, I think Jack is awfully like him, in many ways?”

At the words a sudden change came over the girl’s expressive face. For a moment she hesitated, then raised her eyes to his. “Franz,” she said, “how often do you see Jack now?”

Helmar glanced at her quizzically. “Oh,” he answered, “every once in a while. Not so often as you do, though, I guess.”

He spoke jestingly, but the girl gave him no answering smile, and he hastened to add, “Why, I expect to see him Wednesday night, Marjory, to make arrangements for a little dinner we’re going to have Thursday—Jack and Arthur Vaughan and I. Is there anything I can do?”

The girl colored faintly. “It’s only this,” she said, “and I ought to write to him and not bother you. But when you see Jack, would you mind telling him that I shall be at home Friday evening, if he cares to come out?”

Seemingly, there was more in the words than appeared on the surface, but Helmar, with a certain instinctive chivalry, chose to treat the request with apparent lightness. “Of course I’ll tell him,” he answered, “with all the pleasure in life.”

She looked her gratitude. “Thank you very much, Franz,” she said, “and you will remember, won’t you?”

He nodded reassuringly. “I surely will,” he answered, and as he spoke, the train burst shrieking, around the near-by curve. “Oh, don’t miss it!” she cried. “Thank you, Franz; thank you so much; good-by.”

Breaking into a swift run, Helmar, with the spaniel racing excitedly at his heels, reached the station platform just in time. Boarding the train, and taking a seat far forward in the almost deserted car, he sat for some time in thoughtful silence, and then at last voiced his reflections to the one friend who never betrayed his confidence. “Rex, my boy,” he said slowly, “our friend Jack seems to have achieved the secret of universal popularity.”

The spaniel, listening with head cocked knowingly to one side, gave a sharp, quick bark in reply, and Helmar laughed. “Does that mean you think so, or you don’t think so?” he asked, but the little dog refused further to commit himself, and curling up in his master’s lap, went promptly and comfortably to sleep.

CHAPTER III

THE PRODIGAL SON