up in mirth; "after such a day as Haydock has reported, it would be fatal for you to be cold."

Her merry acceptance of past ignoble facts restored his self-respect as no commiseration could have done. He He laughed, nodded, and obediently went off to look up the deck steward and the

rugs.

Just how the rest of the situation happened, Clode, afterwards, could never say. Aileen was in her sweetest, simplest mood. He himself was boyishly happy at being there beside her, listening to her talk, star

ing alternately at the bright shimmer of her hair and out across the dusky sea, whose gentle rocking seemed to him now the essense of a lullaby, not ominous of disaster as it had been at dawn. And the salty breeze was heavy with sleepiness, also, as it came sweeping in from across the unending surface of the deep, to play among the curly tendrils of his companion's hair and to rest its carressing touch upon his eyelids, pressing them down — and down- and down

A sudden sound, rough, inelegant, and apparently proceeding from himself, aroused him. He sat up straight and stared about him guiltily. The chair beside him was quite empty. Aileen was gone; gone were her rug and book.

It was past ten o'clock, when Aileeen came along the passage leading to her room. Haydock was lying in wait for her, his manner befitting one who wore the royal liveries, in his hand an unenclosed visiting card.

"For you, Miss Warburton," Miss Warburton," he said majestically, as he handed her the card. Then, when she had taken it from him, he bent forward and whispered raucously, "I'd let him down easy, Miss Warburton. He's feeling very sore."

And it was all this that, twelve hours later, had set them both to laughing like a pair of irresponsible youngsters, out for holiday.

"Anyway, we've freed our minds and consciences," Aileen observed, after an interval. "It's the sort of thing one (Continued

could n't well ignore; it's best to have it out and over. But really, Mr. Clode-"

"Yes?"

"You gave my egotism a horrid knock," she told him.

"What about the blow to my own self-respect?" he asked her. "All in all, Miss Warburton, I think we can cry quits. Shall we let the dead past do its intended work?"

"Never!" Aileen's eyes matched the sea in sparkle. "Not many people have such a charmingly original experience in their repertoire of stories. We'll each of us keep it for our very best, and embroider it to suit ourselves. And yet," she shook her head in grave meditation; "I doubt whether even emembroidery can beautify it very much." Then she shifted back to her earlier subject. "But, about your plans: I did n't intend to show an undue curiosity regarding them. I only thought, if you were going through Flanders, as you spoke of doing, we might meet. We hope to spend October there." "We?"

"My young niece. Did n't I tell you? She has been over for a year. Her mother came home in May, and Molly stayed on with an English chaperon, and then to pay some visits. Later, she will join me, and we are to travel together for a few weeks, before we come home."

"In Flanders?"

"Perhaps. Probably. And yet, I am not too sure. I want to go a little off the beaten track; but Molly is younger. She may prefer the tourist trail, as I call the everlasting itinerary that begins and ends at Paris. However, it will make more difference to her than it does to me. As you say, I am practically planless."

"And I absolutely so," he assented quickly. "In a way, it's rather restful. In another sense, it increases the responsibility. When I think about the work of making plans, I feel like bolting off to the nearest Cook's office and letting them do their worst."

Aileen, forgetful of the sea that sparkled sparkled and dimpled and swished on page 96)

about them, turned to stare at Clode. A new accent had come into his pleasant voice, a new expression into his steady eyes. Something, a physical something, seemed to stir in her throat, as she saw and heard.

"Mr. Clode," she said gently; "you needed the rest."

Sharply he roused himself.

"Yes," he said. "So they told me. That's no reason, though, that I should parade the fact."

"You didn't. Give me credit for an occasional bit of intuition," she told him. "You've been getting very tired. What is the use of plans, till you are rested? Why not take things as they come, and just drift along with them? It will do you any amount more good. He gave her one dumb look of gratitude for her comprehension. Then he turned and stared out at the sea.

"I know you 're right, Miss Warburton," he said at length. "It's only my New England conscience that is so hard to down. East winds and baked beans after many generations are bound to have a modifying influence on one's psychology. It is more than fifteen years since I was over; it may be fifteen years more before I can get away again. My conscience and my common sense alike assure me that, with only four months' leave of absense, I can't see half of the things I ought."

"No," Aileen wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. "But won't your your people give you longer holiday?"

He smiled. Then he checked the smile.

"I am afraid I'd best not ask for it," he said.

"Too bad; especially as you say it does n't come too often," she made thoughtful comment. "Still, one can do a good deal in four months. That is about as long as I shall be over."

"And you go directly to the Continent?"

"No; I've some visits first, visits in England. Afterwards, I'm not too sure. Really, like you, I am planless; as you say, it's rather restful."

He crossed his legs and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Yes," he assented, contentedly. "Yes, it is." But, while he spoke, he recognized the fact that, at one spot, his perfect planlessness was broken; that October, willy-nilly, would find him upon Belgian soil. Even yet, however, he had no real inkling of the way his whole map of the future wa dangling from that one slim peg of time and space.

"Good morning, Miss Warburton." Clode's contentment snapped, with his upward glance and his abrupt uncrossing of his legs. He liked Stanway well enough. That is, he had conscientiously downed his earlier dislike of him. Nevertheless, he was conscious of an uncharitable desire to know that Stanway was still held prostrate in his berth. Instead, it was a very smiling and perky Stanway who, cap in hand, had paused before them. An instant later, Clode suppressed a start of extreme surprise. Aileen, to all seeming, shared in his uncharitable desires. Such, at least, was the meaning that Clode read into her accent of reply.

"Oh, Mr. Stanway, good-morning. We hardly expected to see you out so early. You are better?"

"Yes, I am feeling fit enough, this morning. My ankle," Stanway palpably had forgotten the excuse he had transmitted to Aileen by way of Haydock, "is not nearly so painful as I had expected. May I join you? Thanks." And he lowered his long person into the deck chair at Aileen's other hand.

Clode was human. Moreover, he had overheard Haydock's clarion tones of the day before. Therefore,