Part 15 (1/2)

They expected to come back sooner. Her mother wanted just the name on the stone.”

Frank had a strange feeling as he regarded the little grave.

”I never knew that you had lost a sister,” he said. ”I mean that your parents had buried a little girl. Of course, she died before you were born.”

”No,” she said, ”but her death was a fearful blow. Mamma can hardly speak of it even to-day. She could never confess that her little girl was dead, so they called me by her name. I cannot explain it all now.”

Frank said musingly:

”I remember your saying once that you were not even what you seemed to be. Is this what you meant?”

She nodded.

”Yes; that is what I meant.”

They pushed on up the hill, without many words.

The little enclosure and the graven stone had made them thoughtful.

Arriving at the peak they found, at the brow of a cliff, a broad, shelving stone which hung out over a deep, wooded hollow, where here and there the red and gold were beginning to gleam. From it they could look across toward Algonquin, where they tried to locate the spot of the hermit's cabin, and down upon the lake and the Lodge, which seemed to lie almost at their feet.

At first they merely rested and drank in the glory of the view. Then at last Frank drew from his pocket a folded typewritten paper.

”If the court of Minerva is convened, I will lay this matter before her,” he said.

It was not a story of startling theme that he read to her--”The Victory of Defeat”; it was only a tale of a man's love, devotion and sacrifice, but it was told so simply, with so little attempt to make it seem a story, that one listening forgot that it was not indeed a true relation, that the people were not living and loving and suffering toward a surrender which rose to triumph with the final page. Once only Constance interrupted, to say:

”Your friend is fortunate to have so good a reader to interpret his story. I did not know you had that quality in your voice.”

He did not reply, and when he had finished reading and laid the ma.n.u.script down he waited for her comment. It was rather unexpected.

”You must be very fond of the one who wrote that,” she said.

He looked at her quickly, hardly sure of her meaning. Then he smiled.

”I am. Almost too much so, perhaps.”

”But why? I think I could love the man who did that story.”

An expression half quizzical, half gratified, flitted across Frank's features.

”And if it were written by a woman?” he said.

Constance did not reply, and the tender look in her face grew a little cold. A tiny bit of something which she did not recognize suddenly germinated in her heart. It was hardly envy--she would have scorned to call it jealousy. She rose--rather hastily, it seemed.

”Which perhaps accounts for your having read it so well,” she said. ”I did not realize, and--I suppose such a story might be written by almost any woman except myself.”

Frank caught up the ma.n.u.script and poised it like a missile.

”Another word and it goes over the cliff,” he threatened.

She caught back his arm, laughing naturally enough.