by the deepening shadows in the little room.

"I've a mind to," she said in a half whisper.

He crossed the room straightway and dove his own hand into the jar and held out a cigarette to her.

"I'll get a match," he said.

"Don't," she cried, "let me light it from yours."

They leaned toward each other on the window-seat until their faces were very close and the fire of his cigarette touched the tip of hers. Across the frail white bridge and through the pale cloud that rose, their eyes met and his gazed deep into hers, the depths of which he could not fathom. Then they drew back their heads with one accord and his hand fell upon hers where it lay on the cushion. Nor did she withdraw her hand even as his closed over it. The contact sent his blood tingling to his heart; he leaned nearer her. Their eyes, as now and then they saw in the little light the glowing coals of their cigarettes gave, did not waver. He ceased smoking, and so did she. His cigarette dropped from his nerveless fingers. Quickly he flung an arm about her and drew her toward him, holding her close, breathlessly. The perfume of her hair got into his brain, and deadened all but the consciousness of her nearness. She did not resist his impulse, but lay calm in his arms, her face upturned, her eyes melting, gazing into his.

"Dearest," he murmured—"dearest—dearest—"

"Kiss me—kiss me—Jack." The whisper was like the faint moving of young leaves in the forest.

He bent his head.... Their lips met.... He saw the lids fall over her fathomless eyes like a curtain, and night became radiant day that instant love was born....

Suddenly he drew his arms away, rose and strode nervously into the hallway, leaving her in a crouching attitude upon the seat.

She waited eagerly, voiceless.

She perceived his figure between the portières and heard him say:

"I'm sorry—perhaps I must ask you to forgive me—I know I've been a fool—I shall go now——"

She glided toward him with a silent, undulating movement. He felt irresistibly impelled to meet her. Afterward he recalled how he had struggled that moment; had fought; had lost.

He felt her cool, soft arms against his cheeks.

"Don't go,—Jack," she whispered.

He raised his hands and seized her wrists as though to fling her from him.

"Why?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Because,"—her face was hidden against his shoulder and her voice was faint—"because—I don't want you to."

She flung back her head then and he looked down into her face, and kissed her. He kissed her many times, upon the forehead, lips and eyes, while she clung to him, murmuring fondly.

He wrenched himself from her close embrace, at last, and rushing into the hallway, snatched his coat from the chair where she had flung it.

Standing passively where he had left her, Florence heard the outer door slam, followed by his swift tread upon the walk and the click as the gate latched.... Then there was silence.

For a long time she stood there, one hand clutching the back of a quaint, old-fashioned chair. A shudder passed over her. She went to the window and looked out, but in the darkness of the street she could see nothing but the vague outlines of the houses across the way and a blot where the lilac-bush was in the yard.

Sinking upon the seat she proceeded to uncoil her heavy hair, braiding it deftly over her shoulder. Gathering up her combs from the cushion, she went into the hallway and pressed the button regulating the lights. In the white glow she regarded her face in the mirror over the fireplace shelf and smiled back faintly at the reflection.

As she turned to the stairway she perceived a white card lying on the floor. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. It was a little photograph of a young, sweet-faced girl and written across the margin at the bottom she read—the writing ordinary—"To Jack, from Susie." She turned and stared an instant at the vestibule door. Then she mounted the stairs, slowly.

Her mother's voice from the hallway below awakened her.

"I'm here, dear," she called back. "I went to bed—I was so tired."

III

There is this to be said of Jack Houston: whenever he took liquor—which was often—he took it like a man. None of the alley-door for him; through the front door, as sturdy and frank as a Crusader or not at all—that was his way. Let a faculty man be coming toward him half a block distant, there was no hesitation; not a waver. He—if such were the circumstance—would nod and pass directly beyond the double swinging screens, and not give the incident another thought. Nor were bottles ever delivered to his room in boxes marked "Candles." Indeed the outward signs were that he took pride in the bravado with which he carried on the business; for there on the boxes were the stenciled labels—plain enough to be read distinctly across the street—"Perth Whiskey." But it was not that he had a pride in what certain of his fellows were wont to call his "independence." It was simply that he drank—drank when he chose; paid for what he drank; and drank it like a man—a Southern man, honorably. The real trouble was not that he saw fit and cared to drink, or what he drank; but that he drank so much.

And he was in love now; reveling in a multitude of agreeable sensations, which, perhaps, he had not even dreamed himself destined ever to experience in such fulness. Analyzing his emotions he marveled at the condition he discovered. He set himself apart and regarded the other Jack Houston critically. He denied his heart's impeachment; the other Jack sneered and called him a fool. He laughed; the other Jack said,—or seemed to say: "Laugh away; but it's a serious business all the same." He flaunted; the other adhered to the original charge. In the end he stood before that other Jack and held out his hand, as it were, and—like a man—confessed. And it devolved upon him forthwith to celebrate the discovery of a cardiac ailment he had not experienced before as he was experiencing it now. So, with barbaric, almost beautiful, recklessness, he got drunk; thoroughly, creditably drunk.

The next morning, heavy-headed, thick-tongued, he shifted his eyes sheepishly about the room, while Crowley, from the high ground of his own invincible virtue, talked down to him roundly. He did not interrupt the steady flow of malediction in which his immaculate room-mate seemed determined to engulf him; but when the lecture was ended, he looked up, steadily, and said: "Never mind, old top, it's the last; on the square it is."

As he had a perfect right to do under the circumstances, Crowley shrugged his shoulders, and looked out the window into the green of a maple.

"All right, old top," Houston driveled on pathetically—"mebbe I've said it before; but this time I mean it—see if I don't." And he reached across the table for a bottle of bitters. He poured half a small glass with shaking hands. Over the edge of the drink he perceived the sneer on Crowley's face. He set the glass and bottle on the chiffonier carefully.

"Confound you! don't you believe me, you white-ribbon parson!" he cried.

Crowley smiled broadly.

Houston seized the glass. "There!" he exclaimed—"Now do you believe me?—Not even a bracer!" And he flung glass and liquor into the waste-paper basket.

Crowley laughed aloud at that, and went down-stairs, and Houston, as he finished dressing, heard him talking to the landlady's collie on the front porch.

For that afternoon—it