this gave her a tender, virginal aspect; but her soft, deep brown eyes were so saddened by warm shadows below the lids, her mouth was so tremulously sensitive, with its slightly parted lips, and the little lines that women fear had begun to write her history so suggestively upon her face, that, as I gazed at her, I saw a woman who had lived and suffered, a woman as intense as she was delicate in all her moods.

She was clad in a bewilderingly feminine peignoir of lace and embroidery, open at the neck, and covered with another long, straightly hanging garment of shimmering pale-green silk, richly decorated with odd patterns. This gave her to my wondering eyes quite the appearance of a medieval princess, or the heroine of some old fairy tale. The impression was intensified by the long chain she wore, set with fire opals which flashed in the candle-light. From it, below her waist, there hung a golden star.

And, strangest of all, most provocative to my fancy, she also appeared, with extraordinary sympathy, almost with prescience, to feel something of my wonder as she paused and stood silent, retarding her greeting, in answer to my unspoken thought. While our eyes held each other in that marvelous communion, she did not smile; it was rather from her quivering mouth that I got the idea that she, too, was touched by the spell, and was keenly alive to the potentiality of the situation. She seemed to hold her breath lest the wonder should pass too soon.

That moment was as sublimely unreal as anything I have ever known, and, within its unmeasurable limits, as potent. It was tense, instinct with fine, secret emotions too faint for analysis. Messages came and went, electric. It was, in short, the psychological moment that comes but once to any friendship, and, coming, is usually hurried past without appreciation of its mysterious charm. It was that most suggestive of preludes, an instinctive, conscious pause upon the magic threshold of Romance. That she felt its quality also overpowered me. The minute passed like a falling star, and in its glory we seemed to travel miles together.

Then, with a visible effort, she spoke.

Her voice was light and clear, so expressively modulated that I have, despite myself, to compare it only to fairy footsteps passing over flower-tops. Its tones poised and hovered as if on the wing, though they were as sure as the melody of an old song. It was, above all else, graceful, and usually it held a trace of mental eagerness, but its characteristic quality came more from delicate nuances of feeling than from any vibrant intensity. It had the fluidity of running water.

With her first word she smiled, and some of the melancholy escaped from her eyes.

"Oh, you are better now! I'm so glad!"

The silver thread of magic that had bound as was broken, and the episode became real and humorous on the instant. I could not help smiling in my turn, for assuredly, from my point of view, I was, physically, decidedly the worse. I took it from her, by her remark, that I had been ill.

"Yes," I replied, "I suppose I must be better, since you say so, but I seem to be quite bad enough. How long have I been here?"

"Twenty-four hours. You have been a little delirious, you know. I was getting quite anxious about you, though the doctor said there was no danger."

She came nearer, and put her small beautiful hand upon my cheek. I noticed that she wore no rings. The touch of her fingers was soft and cool.

"I'm glad your fever has gone," she said, "Have you much pain?"

I felt sore all over, and there was trouble with my side when I moved; my head seemed to be splitting. But I was so much more interested in her, and how I came to be there, that I dismissed my symptoms with a shrug, and asked what had happened.

"You were thrown from your automobile," she said, "and you were pretty badly shaken up. There was a rib broken, and a slight concussion of the brain, I believe, but nothing serious. You'll have to stay here several days, at least, and keep quiet. Doctor Copin had to go back to town, and I must notify him that you are all right now. You mustn't fret about it, for you are perfectly welcome to stay here and it won't trouble us in the least. Only I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored. It's quiet here, and I'll be rather dull company."

"I'm not worrying, I assure you," I said. "I'm in no hurry to get well."

She smiled again, faintly but with a quick appreciation, and took a seat in an arm-chair which stood beside my bed. I caught a glimpse of a green silk stocking and an exquisitely small foot in a fantastically shaped slipper. She went on:

"I have been a good deal troubled because we have, of course, no idea who you are. I was afraid that some of your friends might be alarmed about you. So, if there is any one we can notify, or send for, give me the address and the message, and I'll send it over to the telegraph office at the Harbor, or I can telephone for you, if there's any one in town. Doctor Copin could call and explain your condition, if you prefer."

As she leaned her face on her slender hand and looked at me, she added: "Your motor has been taken care of, so you needn't worry about that. Uncle Jerdon hauled it into the stable, and it can stay there until you have a chance to have it repaired."

"You were good to take me in and to get a doctor," I said, watching the tiny vertical lines come and go in her forehead.

"Oh, Doctor Copin happened to be with me when you were brought in by Uncle Jerdon. I really don't know how you managed to escape with your life."

"I didn't deserve to escape. I was running considerably over the speed limit, I imagine. I wanted to get back to town early." How much rather would I have discussed the queer little corners of her lips that changed so distractingly, and the transparent shadow under her cheek-bone that spiritualized her whole expression now and again!

"Oh, I must take your message!" she exclaimed, a little embarrassed by the pause that had fallen.

She rose and went over to an antique secretary, bringing back a pad of paper and a pencil. Reseating herself, she waited for me to dictate. I thought a while and then gave her a short report of my condition to be sent to my partner. Having written this down she went out of the room quietly, leaving the candle with me. No sooner had she left than my pain returned. For the time I had forgotten all about it.

In spite of this, the thought of her filled me with a restful peace. I didn't in the least want to know who she was, so long as I might see her, and hear her talk to me in that smooth, melodious, eager voice, whose sound had established her convincingly as a lady of rare promise. The prospect of having to spend several days in her society, or at least near her, was as pleasant a thought as I could well imagine. The fruit of our moment was a mystery, rich and fragrant, which I wished only not to destroy. I found myself trying, in her absence, to recall each feature of her face, her poses, and her hands so keenly alive and full of graceful gesture. That I did not wonder who she was—what was her name, her situation, her history—came, perhaps, from the state of bodily weakness in which my accident had left me, but it seemed to me then that it was not merely the passivity of my physical