JUST
SWEETHEARTS

A Christmas Love Story

By
HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS
AUTHOR OF
“TWO RUNAWAYS,” “HIS DEFENSE,”
“ENEAS AFRICANUS,” ETC.

PUBLISHED BY
THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY
MACON, GEORGIA

Just Sweethearts

Chapter I

BATHED in the sunshine of one of those perfect days which so often come with Christmas in the South, he stood at the street corner, a light cane across his shoulders supporting his gloved hands, his eyes shifting with ever-changing interest, and a half smile on his swarthy face. It was written all over him that he had no appointments to meet, no duties to discharge; that he was by chance, only, in the moving picture and not of the cast, and that the whole thing, so far as he was concerned, was but a transient show to be enjoyed for its brilliancy of colors and its endless succession of fine Southern faces.

But here was idleness without inertia. Clearly he was one of those rare beings who can radiate energy standing still and convey the impression of impetuous force without motion, a trick of the eyes, a refusal to sag.

Name? Ladies and gentlemen, meet King Dubignon.

King saw her first as she started across Cherry Street from the far corner, a slender figure moving with grace and assurance through the dangerous procession of motor cars, still handled in the South as new toys, and once or twice his lips parted for a warning cry, but she gained the opposite corner with ease and turned straight toward him across Third. Now, of all the throng his alert eyes clung to this approaching figure and began to take note of details—white spats, plain tailor suit, loose blousy waist and flat hat with its little veil of black lace. Soon she was directly in front but her demure gaze was not for him. She was mentally preoccupied. She had thoughts of her own and not having seen the Dubignon eyes and smile she failed to look back after she passed.

The young man released a suspended breath like unto the fervid sigh of a cow settling down to rest, lowered his cane and stood gazing after the receding figure. And not he only, as he noticed with quick jealousy. Every man and woman who met her turned for a second glance. The gentian eyes, radiant face, curved lips parted in a half smile, belonged in an artist’s dream; the slender, supple figure borne along on dainty feet, the subtle grace of her moving, line vanishing into line, curve melting into curve, the free, elastic, boyish stride, were combinations notable even in The City of Beautiful Women, as the aborigines call their Macon.

King was an artist and had dreamed. He had lost something out of his dreams and now he had found something to place in one. He followed and saw her vanish into the crowd of a cheap store, an emporium of ten-cent things; and presently his broad shoulders opened up a path there for himself. Down one aisle and up another; and then he found her. She was critically examining lace at ten cents the yard and did not look up as he passed. The purchase of lace of any kind is a tax on all the faculties if one is faithful.

Checkmate? No. Inspiration! He went forward to the turn of the aisle at the show window near the door. It had occurred to him that sooner or later she would pass out. He took his stand in a little bay of space nearby and waited. Time was no object to him at such a crisis.

When he saw her coming again, threading her way through the crowd and almost without contact, he so maneuvered that she drifted naturally into the little bay promptly vacated for her accommodation. Instantly he was standing directly in front, hat in hand, arresting her departure:

“Beautiful, just a moment, please,” he said, smiling down, “I saw you crossing the street and followed you here. When you leave I shall not follow again. Listen; what I am asking is that you will take my card and have your father, or somebody, inquire about me of one of the bank cashiers on the corner, and then write me your address, won’t you? This isn’t regular, I know,” he continued with increase of vocal momentum, “but it is necessary—absolutely necessary. I have searched and waited for you all my life, and if I lose you now it may be forever.” The girl had drawn back a little and was looking into his face with wonder but without alarm. The Dubignon eyes and smile were irresistible. Nevertheless, now that he had spoken—words altogether different from the formal ones planned—King became self-conscious and troubled. Something jarred. Perhaps it was the twentieth century or the ten-cent store. Besides, he was pointing a piece of cardboard at her in, what must have seemed, a very absurd way. She felt instantly his embarrassment, and women of all ages gain composure when men in their presence lose it. The instinctive response of eyes and lips, vibrant life to impetuous youth, was checked and a tiny, perpendicular line divided her brows:

“Are you quite sane?” she began, her voice reduced almost to a whisper—he thanked God for that. “Stand aside, please, or shall I send for the manager?”

“Perfectly sane,” he said, moving aside, but still holding out the card. “You will not send for anyone, because now the way is open. But all the same, I wish, awfully, you would take my card and when you get home decide. Won’t you, please? It’s just a little, lonesome card,” he added, whimsically. The girl hesitated, questioning him with the wonderful gentian eyes, into which, now of a sudden, came a fixed light. A white wonder paled her face for a fleeting instant, and she moved a step nearer. Doubtingly, the gesture clearly an unconscious one, her hand touched his arm.

“Have I ever seen you before? Do you know my name?” He shook his head, smiling happily. She watched the smile with open interest.

“Think again!” she urged, earnestly. He was deeply troubled. He wished that he might say he had met her as a summer girl somewhere, but he could not. What he did say was:

“It may strike you as absurd, but I have only seen you in a dream—a long dream!” She smiled over this and with sudden decision took the card, dropping it into her shopping bag.

“You are not to follow. You promised!”

“Cross my heart! I shall remain here fifteen minutes. Can you vanish back into your sunbeam in fifteen minutes?”

“Completely.” Her little laugh was the finest thing he had ever heard. She smiled up into his face and passed out.

Fifteen minutes later, having, with the aid of a little lady of blonde accomplishments, selected a dozen pairs of crimson and green socks and paid for them, he looked at his watch.

“My dear,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind. There’s really no room in my grip for this bundle. Christmas is at hand—kindly hand them to Mother, with my best wishes.”

“And I have no mother, and I never saw him before!” she said to the floorwalker, hysterically. “And red and green socks!”

“Easy mash,” he laughed, “he’ll be back. Exchange for something else.” She opened a tiny vanity box and powdered her nose. It was ammunition wasted.

Fate is a merry jade, at times. Half way to Jacksonville in a Pullman next day a young woman with gentian eyes, who had time and again searched her handbag, opened a package of cheap lace to finish dressing a Christmas doll, and a card dropped out. It bore the inscription, “King Dubignon.” Underneath was penciled the information that he was associated with Beeker, Toomer & Church, Architects, New York, and to this was added, “Hotel Dempsey, Macon, three days.” Fate’s little jest was the concealment of the card in a fold of the paper wrapper for twenty-four hours.

WHEN King Dubignon left Cornell and some seven hundred who had labored with him through several years of architecture and watercolor, he bore with him the consciousness that final examples of his work, left there, had not been excelled, and the memory of many friendly assurances that his place was waiting for him out in the great world. That he construed these assurances too literally was the fault of his temperament, and so, perfectly natural. Home yearning pulled him back to his beloved South for the initial plunge, and it was not long before his name in gilt invited the confidence of the good people of Macon, who had castles in the air.

The field proved narrow and depressing for one of his profession and temperament. The seven-room cottage of many colors seemed the limit of popular imagination at that time.

This, for a young man who was bursting with ideas, and who dreamed of thirty-live story buildings and marble palaces printing graceful lines against skies of blue! The years that slipped held some minor triumphs, but he classed them as time wasted.

Then a provincial board turned down his modern school building for a combination barn, silo and garage, designed by somebody’s nephew, and the proverbial straw was on the celebrated camel’s back.

It was a spring day when the camel’s spine collapsed. Birds were building homes for themselves, and wonderful flowers were solving, without human aid, marvels of form and color, and voices were calling to him across years unborn. Ah, those voices! He placed a foot under the corner of his drawing table and wrecked it against the wall.

Three days later he was in New York, that Mecca of ambitious young Southerners, and at the door of Beeker, Toomer & Church, esteemed by him and many another as the great city’s leading architects. Mr. Church, the junior partner, heard his application. A little smile hovered about the man’s thin lips, and a slight movement of the lines leading southeast and southwest from the nostrils expressed a cynical weariness.

“On an average,” said he with an air of calculation, “we have applications from Cornell men at the rate of six a week. And there are others!” He waved a hand feebly toward a vista of rooms with bending forms therein. “We can’t always keep the crowd we have busy.”

“I know all about that,” said King coolly, “but perhaps you need a man in this special line—art glass, stained glass windows?” He opened a portfolio and laid some designs before the architect.

Now, while no artist listens with patience to business argument, none refuses to listen to pictures. Mr. Church looked, carelessly at first, then with a distinct show of interest. The sheets slipped rapidly through his hands and he shot a swift glance at his visitor.

“These yours?”

“Yes.” Mr. Church pressed a button somewhere, his eyes still on the designs. A little gate opened.

“Come in,” he said.

And King Dubignon stood at the threshold of his career.

Back in the junior partner’s office the designs were more carefully examined.

“Very creditable,” was the grudging admission; “it so happens that we may be able to use a man in this line—temporarily. Be seated.” He disappeared. When he returned he was accompanied by a stout man of perhaps forty-five, prompt of manner and with a face that seemed to have been carved from tinted marble after a Greek model. This one, with quick eye, examined the designs, which he handled as an expert handles Sevres.

“Excellent! Yours?”

“Yes,” said King.

“Where are you from?”

“Georgia.”

“Learn this down there?”

“Partly, and partly at Cornell.”

“Nothing finer ever in this office, Church. You want to work with us, I suppose?” This to King.

“If agreeable, sir.”

“All right. How does twenty-five hundred strike you for a starter?”

“Fine.” And then, “Just what I made last year building freak cottages.” Mr. Beeker laughed:

“I know; served my time on them. The young wife brings you a home-made ground plan, providing for hotel accommodations, and wants a roof put over it—bay windows, porte cochere, etc. Cries when she finds your roof will cost more than her cottage. You’ll be under Mr. Church, Mr.—”

“Dubignon.”

“Good old name. Any advice needed, drop in on me.” He shook hands and turned away, but came back and placed a finger on the pictures:

“I say, Church, how about the memorial windows?”

“Yes, I think Mr. Dubignon might help.”

“Better give him a free hand on it.”

A sudden flush overspread the Southerner’s face and his look of gratitude followed the great architect.

But if King looked for sudden fame in New York, he was disappointed. Putting aside his ambition for the time being, he threw himself into the task of developing along the special line he had chosen for a foothold, with the same ardor that had carried him to the front at college, and his work stood all tests, easily. Beeker, Toomer & Church became headquarters for art glass designs in architecture. Presently his salary rose. And then again. And at length he found himself independent. But, to use his own expression, he “got nowhere.” The reason was simple; it was a rule of the office that all designs should bear the firm’s name only. Church had carefully explained this in the beginning. Church had also seen to it that press notices of their notable work invariably mentioned that Ralph Church was the head of the department responsible for it. King writhed under this system, but he could not budge without financial backing. He was heartily tired of his narrow field. At odd times, in his own living room, he worked on his ambitious dream.

The dream of the young architect was a thirty-five story office building wherein utility was to be combined with beauty without sacrifice of dividend-paying space or money, and without offense to the artistic eye from any point of view. Many architects have wrestled with the same problem and some with brilliant results. Now, by strange coincidence, a thirty-five story office building for Chicago, financed in New York, began to be talked of in building circles. No plans had been asked, no consultation with architects had. A rumor had started and was kicked around as a football. King took the backward trail and patiently followed it into the office of a certain great banker, whose young woman secretary had a friend that served an afternoon paper in reportorial capacity. Here King met his Waterloo; for no man in New York was less accessible than this particular banker, who had once received a “black-hand” letter. Red tape, red-headed office boy, confidential clerks, private secretary, hemmed him in from all but his selected associates. And the banker’s offices were full of unsuspected exits. All roads led from his Rome.

King stalled at the red-headed boy—the extreme outer guard.

It was at this stage of his career that he put aside ambition and raced off to Georgia for a few days along the coast. One proved sufficient. He spent that laying holly wreaths on graves under mossy live oaks. Then he betook himself to Macon, to lunch and dine and sup with his old-time S. A. E. friends of Mercer, scene of his earliest college years. He found them in law offices, doctor shops, banks and trade—glad to see him, but busy. Then, bankrupt of emotions, he began to stand on the street corners during their busy hours and watch the people pass.

And watching thus, he had seen her.

And, finally, after three days more in his hotel, much boring of friends and many fruitless chases of false rumors, and hours in front of Wesleyan College, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was, after all, a sublime ass. Bearing this added burden, he had taken himself off to New York, in what old-time writers were pleased to call a frame of mind.

But, at the bottom of a formidable array of Christmas greetings piled on his desk by his devoted friend, Terence, the office boy, he found an envelope postmarked “Jacksonville, Fla., Dec. 25.” Within was a card, one of the kind sold five for a nickel, bearing these lines:

And for King Dubignon, Christmas came back.

Also for Terence. The tip was five dollars, and an injunction:

“Small boy, note this handwriting! You will perceive that it is more of a jumping than a running hand—well, it belongs on the top of all mail. Understand?”

“I’m on,” said Terence with his broadest grin.

“Return to New York,” quoted King, self communing; “I should have known from the way she crossed the street she belonged in New York.”

“Sir?”

“On your way, Terence; on your way!” but this with a smile.

LENT was well under way and the first Easter displays in show windows when on a Saturday morning, King found a little note perched on the top of his office mail, which read:

Whence she came, he never knew, but as he stood waiting, she appeared before him, her face radiant, her gentian eyes smiling up to his. He lifted his hat quickly and fell into step with her along the east side of Broadway. Now that the supreme moment had arrived, he raged inwardly that a species of dumbness should have seized upon him. Turning her head away, the girl laughed softly. She had no fears. The subtle instinct of her sex had informed her that it was not a contest between man and girl, but between woman and boy. The discovery pleased her. And then, smiling, she challenged him:

“Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”

King rallied:

“This; you are to marry me, of course. That was arranged in the beginning of all things. The important thing now is to get acquainted.” Again the low, sweet laugh and upturned face:

“Sounds like the verdict of a fortune teller. One of your old South Atlantic voodoos been earning a dollar?” He was amazed. It was not to be the last time this girl was to amaze him. She was an amazing girl.

“Why place me at the South Atlantic?”

“Oh my! Innocent! Doesn’t everybody know Charleston and Savannah brogue when they hear it?”

“Close. But it was a little further down. Are we so distinct, though?”

“Nobody can imitate it. I’ve tried. The fraud was apparent. My poor voice sticks. I can’t change it.”

“God forbid! But—getting back to the wedding—I am in earnest.”

“And you don’t know even my name!”

“I have name enough for two.”

“Nor who I am.”

“I know who you will be. That’s enough.”

“Nor if I am—nice.”

“Don’t jest.”

“Nor my profession. I may be an artist’s model, soubrette, chorus lady, paid companion, waitress, manicurist, or lady’s maid.” She glanced down at her very homely dress.

“I don’t care what your profession has been. I can look into your face and see that it has been honorable. It’s going to be Mrs. King Dubignon. Look up! I love you, can’t you see it?” Her eyes, swimming in light and laughter, met his.

“You absurd boy! Do you always make love this way? Is it the custom—‘a little further down’ than Charleston and Savannah?”

“I have never before spoken of love to a girl. My lips have never touched a girl’s.” And then, “I have been waiting for you!”

A deep flush suffused her neck and face, and for the first time she betrayed confusion.

“Don’t, please!” she whispered. “It is impossible that any man could love any girl so suddenly. And I don’t like to be treated as a silly.” King had whirled suddenly and was facing her.

“Impossible? Do you know that it takes all the will power I can exert to keep from snatching you up in my arms? I resist because I don’t want to frighten you. What do I care for people, for Broadway? This is the twentieth century! We haven’t time to play guitars under windows or sit in the moonlight week after week testing our emotions. We live by faith, move by faith—faith in ourselves, first, because if we are square, that’s faith in God; and then by faith in our women. And when they are square, that’s trust in God. We don’t just meet the women He creates for us; we have known them all along. We just recognize them and take their hands in ours for eternity. My soul has been sitting at the window all my life, waiting, watching. I have found you. Name? family? occupation?—they are hung on human beings as so many garments. I don’t know any of yours, but I recognized you at the first glance. You are for me and I for you! And in your heart, you know it!”

“Come, oh, come!” she whispered hurriedly, paling a little. “We must not stand talking on the street. See, people are beginning to stare. You are making me conspicuous.” He followed her in silence disdaining to look about him, but already regretting his outburst. It had gathered more force and emphasis than he intended. His moodiness returned. Where were all the fine things he had planned to say? What a thistle eater he was!

They had reached Madison Square. She regained composure first and seated herself on a convenient bench. He heard again the sweet, low laughter and felt her eyes looking up to him.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he questioned ruefully.

“Immense!” Very prompt.

“You believe me, nevertheless.”

“Oh, I believe you do. But come, sit down and tell me about that home, a little further down than Charleston and Savannah. Coast?”

“Island,” he said, rather glad of the change.

“Surf, and all that, I suppose?”

“Nothing finer on the ocean. Coney Island, Rockaway, Cape May, Atlantic City—why, the surf there is a ripple compared with Cumberland and Tybee.”

“You swim, of course.”

“All islanders swim, like river rats. You should see the breakers at Cumberland—twenty miles of them down to Dungeness. It takes a swimmer to get through there, and back, when the wind is in the northeast. But it’s second nature with the natives. They ride the combers like wild horses.”

“How long have you ever been in the water—there, among the—wild horses?” She leaned forward eagerly, her eyes searching his every feature.

“Ten hours, once. You see I was pretty small and the tide took me out. But it couldn’t drown me. And a lumber boat happened along.”

“But if the boat hadn’t happened along?”

“Oh, the tide would have brought me back. Dead, maybe, but I think not. I am a floater. Some swimmers are not balanced right for floating. Women hardly ever.” She gave him a friendly smile.

“And there is where your home is?”

“What the war left of it—two wings of a cochina house and an unbroken view of desolation. But it was home.”

“Now you are talking sensibly. Home! That’s always worth talking about. Let’s quit the foolish love business.”

“And yet, it is love that makes the home.”

“True. But think of a home where the wife was won, a stranger, by a stranger, on the street.”

“That is strongly put. I had not thought of it that way.”

“Better now than too late.”

“The answer is, in my case, that you are not a stranger. Outside of every man’s life there is a woman standing—just outside, her radiance across his path. He is always conscious of her there, but he cannot see her. He finds himself striving because of her; ambitious, because of her. Then one day she steps in and he recognizes her. And because of her he keeps his soul clean and face to the sunrise. Some call her the Ideal. But I know her as the woman God made for me. Now you understand what I meant when I said I had waited for you all my life.”

“What a beautiful thought!”

“It’s not my fault I met you on the street.”

“Perhaps it may not always be, on the street.”

“You mean you will let me come to see you some day?”

“I am not suggesting that.”

“Then, you never will?”

“I have not said so.” He relapsed into moody silence.

“Listen,” she said, at length, picking up the loose end. “You are not altogether a stranger either.” Again that swift, half mocking, upward smile. “Outside of every girl’s life there is a man standing—just outside, his shadow across her path. She is always conscious of him there; she knows him as the man God made for her, but she cannot see him. Then, one day, he steps in and she recognizes him.”

“What a beautiful thought!” he echoed. And then: “Down in Macon, for instance, did you recognize me?”

“I am inclined to think I did,” she answered with a faint smile. “Nevertheless, I took you at your word, and asked about you.”

“In Macon?”

“No, silly.”

“What did you learn?”

“Oh, you are a talented young draughtsman, and ambitious. Also, you are a dreamer, an impetuous dreamer. You certainly are that. If I were an adventuress as well as—penniless, I might marry you and take chances on your success. I could always quit, you know. But I am not an adventuress and marriage is impossible for us.”

“Why impossible?” The sun was gone.

“There is a fact—I can’t tell you now. And you were to ask me no questions. But the fact is, now, insurmountable.”

“Tell me that fact.”

“I cannot. But, on my honor, if I did you would not want to marry me. You would leave me on the street and never return.” Her face, now grave and earnest, was lifted fearlessly and her eyes met his in sincerity. His dumb distress touched her. Her color deepened a little—the passing of a thought. The light of battle flashed in his brown eyes.

“Here is the limit you set—Madison Square. Here is my answer: The only fact I recognize is, you have stepped into my life; you are my woman. Beautiful, come with me to the City Hall for a license, and then to the minister. Yonder is a taxi. I love you—I’d just as lieve marry you out of the street as out of a palace!” He drew a thin circlet of gold from his finger. “Here is my mother’s wedding ring, almost her sole legacy to me. It goes with my faith that you are the kind of woman she was!” Mist was in the eyes, turned suddenly away, and then back to him. Her face glowed with an almost unearthly light and beauty. She reached out, took the ring, kissed it and handed it back.

“With reverence,” she said tenderly, “but I cannot wear it. There is a reason why I can not. It’s not for me now. You’ll know some day.” Mystified, he stood silently watching her face. And then:

“You’ll see me again soon, won’t you?”

“Perhaps. But I am not always free. I shall have to pick a time. Now, you go back, please. I must go on. But wait—I—I want to thank you for that faith. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever known. It would not be hard to learn to love such a—boy.”

She smiled divinely. “Goodbye!”

One of them looked back, after the parting. The psychologists know which.

FOUR days of suffering registered on the Southerner. In the hours when he should have been sleeping, he picked at the meshes that held him. It was true that he seemed to have always been conscious of this girl whose vivid beauty now enslaved him. (These artists have wider worlds than the common run of humans.) But what fact had she in mind which, if revealed, would make his love impossible? Who and what was she? He gathered the threads of evidence: her time was not her own; she was, by her own admission, or so he construed it, penniless; he had met her when offices were discharging stenographers for the day, and shop girls were beginning to start homeward; when she left him, she went in the direction of the theater district. But why shouldn’t he marry a stenographer, or an actress, or a shop girl? Or even a model or manicurist or a lady’s maid, if she were square? What had her occupation to do with his happiness?

King was younger than his years, as are most Southerners, but he was sensitive to delicate influences. Without analysis, he knew that this girl had touched an atmosphere of refinement and was educated. And she had traveled. But what was so poor a girl doing in Charleston and Savannah and Macon? It sounded like a theatrical route. One day, on impulse, he consulted a theatrical agency and learned that “Naughty Marietta” had been in Macon on the 23d of December and Jacksonville on the 24th. He knew the opera and had seen its array of beauties and yet he could not figure out why, being of the Marietta company should keep her from marrying him. But—and there came the devil’s hand in his affairs—but these theater girls marry so recklessly! King sat up in bed when this thought arrived and uttered a word he had learned from his grandfather’s overseer. It was not a nice word. And yet—and here a gentler voice intervened—and yet, don’t you know the girl isn’t married? Don’t you know?

Of course he knew, the girl was not married!

Then what the thunder was all the row about? Father in the penitentiary? Mother scrubbing office buildings for a living? Brother a pickpocket? Sister gone to the bad? Tuberculosis? Pellagra? Not these latter, certainly.

And what had the others to do with her marrying him? Nothing, if he had a say so.

He dismissed them with a mental finger-snap, and put his faith again in destiny. She was his woman. He would win her in spite of herself.

Then on the fifth day came a little note. He was to be at the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum at one hour past high noon. He was there promptly. She descended from a bus at the corner and came to him rapidly.

“Inside,” she said, smiling but passing. He followed. Inside she fell back with him. Then came the quick, characteristic upward look. The gentian eyes were troubled.

“What have you been doing to yourself, little boy? Are you working too hard?”

“Scarcely that,” he laughed, “but possibly sleeping less than usual. And you?—but why ask! You are the same radiant, beautiful girl as when I first saw you.”

“Don’t, please. I detest flattery.”

“The word ‘beautiful’ doesn’t flatter you. But I think I understand. However, if I’m not to call you that, what am I to do for a name? Can’t you trust me with some little old name?”

“My uncle calls me Billee, when he finds me amiable; Bill, when he is displeased, and William, when he is out of all patience. You can take them all three. You’ll need them later.”

“Miss Billee will do for me.”

“Billee, or nothing, sir!”

“All right. Now then, Billee, listen to me. You’ve been through this place?”

“Dozens of times. I suggested it because at this hour it is not frequented by—because it is apt to be uncrowded, and I wanted to be alone with you. Forgive me if I shock you.”

“Forgive you! Come, I know a place where few people will be passing. It is both public and private.”

“All right. Let’s go sit down and tell glad stories of live kings.”

“Good paraphrase. Where did you learn the original?”

“Oh, I read to an old lady friend a great deal. I’m learning lots of pretty things in books.” Lightly touching her arm, he guided her to a broad seat screened by a marble group at the far end of the hall.

“Here is the place! Now I have a confession to make. I have not been strictly true to you—to myself.”

“Been flirting elsewhere?”

“The truth is I inquired of a theatrical agency what company was in Macon on December 23d, the day I met you, and was informed it was ‘Naughty Marietta.’ That is all. Don’t think I am asking you a question. It makes no difference to me if you are Marietta herself or a chorus girl.” Billee gasped and after a swift glance to his solemn face laughed until her eyes swam in tears.

“You dear boy! No, I am not an actress, that is, professionally. I went to Jacksonville, since you want to know, as—can you stand a shock?”

“Don’t tell me. I don’t care to know.” She picked at a darned place in her glove.

“As the companion of an old lady. Are you very much disappointed?”

“Happy old lady!” said King fervently. “Disappointed? I have an intense admiration for the girl who earns her own living. But, Billee, why work?”

“Don’t! You have forgotten the fatal fact.”

“But there is no fact that can be fatal to us, unless—unless, you are already married!” She considered this a moment, her face very grave.

“And you think it possible that I might be married and at the same time willing to meet you this way? How could you love such a person?”

“I don’t think so,” said King miserably, in over his head, “but there are only two things could keep you from me—death and marriage. And believe me, Billee, you are far from dead.” Then suddenly the little hand was slipped in his and he saw his own image in the gentian eyes.

“King—you will let me call you that, won’t you?—my King! Oh, don’t you understand? There must be a mystery between us; how long, the good God only knows—but it may not keep us from each other all the time. Can’t we be just sweethearts till then? Don’t you know I love to be with you—and—and would love you—if I might? Don’t you know? Don’t you know, King?” The inevitable happened. She was swept up in the arms of the young man and his lips were pressed to hers. For one long moment, while the world swam about her and her heart stood still, she lay unresisting, helpless. Then he released her and leaped to his feet.

“My God!” he cried in a whisper, staring at her, incredulous. “Can you ever forgive me? I was crazy, mad—I did not know what I was doing! Billee, go! Leave me and never come back! I deserve it!” He was trembling from head to foot. She arose with slow dignity, her face very pale, and tidied her slightly disarranged dress, her eyes timidly searching the perspective ahead, and lips quivering. There was but one couple in view and their backs were turned.

“King,” she said, “you must promise me you’ll never do that again; you must, King, or I shall have to leave you and not return.”

“I swear it! Never until you lay your head on my breast, of your own free will!” But presently she turned and faced him bravely, her eyes again on his. A new note was in her voice. She seemed older.

“King, I can’t bear to see you look unhappy; and I am not a hypocrite. I forgive you, because—I am glad you kissed me, just once—and in that way. Now, I do not doubt—”

“You cannot doubt—”

“I do not doubt myself! King, my splendid boy—oh, this is shameful!” She choked, covered her eyes with one hand, stretched the other blindly toward him, but before he could take it, was gone. He stood as she left him, looking down the vista through which she fled, but seeing nothing. Presently he pressed the back of one hand to his eyes and then examined it in wonder.

“Oh Terence! Terence! what would you give to see that! You’d blackmail me fifty years.”

THE next note reached King four days after his meeting with Billee in the Museum. The four days had seemed four years. It would be untrue to say that the mystery of it all did not continue to wear on him in the hours when he should have been sleeping, but the Southerner is born and dies an optimist, and is usually loyal to his ideals. King’s loyalty refused to entertain a doubt. Who could doubt Billee’s eyes? The note came as his reward, or so he cheered himself. It appointed a meeting for the afternoon in one of New York’s suburban churches.

The world stood still for King Dubignon, or at least time seemed to, when the hurried, unrevised, illogical little note revealed its message. Trust her? Trust Billee? Well, rather! He stowed it in his deepest pocket along with some other priceless compositions of hers, and went off to church much ahead of the appointed time. The chiaroscuro over on the left received him, and ages after, she glided into the pew and slipped her hand in his, while the choir sang, afar off, “Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom.”

Speech, while the divine voices carried that wonderful song-prayer, would have been sacrilege. And, though he did not analyze, it was expressing his feelings far better than he knew how.

He covered the one hand he held with his other and sat in silent bliss, and presently she added the one, little, lonesome hand she had left to the friendly group, and nestled up closer.

“Just sweethearts!” she whispered.

When the hymn was ended, he was dreaming off toward a beautiful window of stained glass. The colors were exquisitely blended, the design simple. In the foreground was a cross and scroll bearing a name. In the deep perspective, the sun was setting, its splendor on a single drifting cloud. To the right and left of the cross cherubs hovered, one face lifted, the other foreshortened, and eyes closed. The faces were identical.

A loved one slept under the cross; a spirit had ascended to heaven. This was the story they told.

“You like my window? I call it mine because I love it so. And I am afraid I come oftener to see it than to pray.”

“Yes,” said King, gently, “I like it.”

“Have you seen it before?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me what about it impresses you most.”

“The two little faces.”

“Oh! and I love them most, too. Perhaps you have never heard the romance, the miracle of that window.”

“Romance? Miracle?”

“It is a memorial to Agnes Vandilever, erected by her husband.”

“Yes, I know. But the romance?”

“The artist who designed it, though he had never seen or heard of her child, accidentally made the two faces portraits of that child. If she had posed for him, they could not have been nearer perfect. That’s why her father selected the design over the dozens submitted.”

“That I had heard.”

“But the romance is this: the little girl is now grown, and one of the richest girls in the world—are you listening?”

“Yes,” said King, whose gaze had returned to the two little faces. “You were saying she is rich—one of the world’s richest girls. I know that. A century though lies between her and the little ones yonder. She can never dream back to them. I was thinking of that.”

“Wait! No man ever knows all that’s in a girl’s heart. Early in life when she was just a little child as pictured yonder, she was the victim of a ferry boat collision off Cortlandt Street. My old lady friend—the one I live with—is her relative. I have seen Miss Vandilever many times, and have often read her story in some old newspapers. She was but eight years old when the accident occurred, and in the care of an old negro nurse on the boat. The family were on their way up from the South, and the little girl and her nurse had gone out of the cabin to the deck to see the lights. When the collision occurred, both were thrown into the river. In the confusion of the moment and noise of whistles and the screams, the minor accident was not noticed nor were the cries of the woman and child heard except by one person, a boy of sixteen or seventeen, who was also out to see the lights, and probably New York for the first time. This boy plunged into the river from the sinking boat and succeeded in reaching the little girl. Then—how, only the good God who was watching, knows—he got out of his coat and kicked off his shoes and would probably have swum to the wharves with her, but a tug, at full speed and blowing its whistle for other boats to come, ran over them. Shall I wait for the organ to stop?”

“No, your voice and that music were made for just such a story. The tug ran over them—”

“As it struck, the boy seized the dress of the child at the throat, with his teeth, covered her face with his hands, and went down with her. The boat passed, and they rose and whirled in the foam of its wake. The boy’s teeth held like a bulldog’s, though the barnacles on the tug had torn his side cruelly and something had broken his left arm. He could now only support the child by swimming on his back, her face drawn up to his breast, her hands clinging to his shoulders, and body floating free.”

“He knew how to save a drowning person, who wasn’t panic-stricken. It must have been a brave child to keep her head through it all.”

“As they drifted on with the tide, unseen, he comforted her, promising he would be sure to get her to the land and take her home. He stopped calling for help when he found his voice frightened her. And then he laughed to show her he was not afraid, and told her little stories of the South, where he came from, and sang the songs his black mammy sang to him when he was very little, so that the girl forgot her fears and put her faith in the wonderful boy, who knew so much, and had come to help her.

“Then, after a long while, he told her to try and sleep; to lay her head on his breast, but first to lift her face up toward the skies and pray God for her father and mother and the old black woman, who had ‘turned back because she couldn’t swim,’ and to bring the boy and herself to the land soon. And she did. And then, maybe, she went to sleep, for she could never afterwards remember any more. And maybe the boy went to sleep, too, for they found them both floating under the stars off the Liberty Light hours later, his one good arm slowly, oh! so slowly, striking the water, the other, broken and trailing under him, and his white face turned upward, and his teeth again clenched on the child’s dress, so hard they had to cut it to get her away from him.” Billee suddenly drew her hands away and covered her face.

“He was probably tired and asleep, too,” said King gently, “you can’t drown that kind of chap.”

“It’s the song ‘Absent’ that voice is singing up there,” said Billee, furtively wiping her eyes. “It always did get the best of me. Listen.”

“You were telling me of the boy and girl,” he reminded, gently, as she sat dreaming.

“Yes. Her father and mother, who had been saved, began a frantic search for her. She was their only child. They offered fortunes to any one who would find her, dead or alive, and the river and bay were full of tugs and patrol boats, and fire boats and launches hurrying here and there under the searchlights. When they found the poor, old, dead nurse, with a little hair ribbon clenched in her hand, all hope fled. But a barge captain landed the boy and girl at the Battery. In a few minutes the city knew that the little heiress to many millions was safe in her mother’s arms. And great surgeons were working over the boy in St. Luke’s. You must read it yourself some day. I lose so much in telling it.”

“Go on. I’d rather hear you.”

“But there isn’t much more to tell. The boy refused to give his name. He seemed afraid somebody would hang a medal on him and make a speech, and that the papers would write him up and print his picture, and he’d never get over it. Said it was nothing, at last. That he could swim from Georgia to New York if the water stayed smooth and somebody was along to cook for him.

“But the girl and her mother came every day and brought him flowers and good things to eat, and in the imagination of that little child he grew to be the greatest hero in the world. And he must have liked her, for he would hold her hand and tell her the stories over and over: Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox and the Tar-Baby. The old lady I live with has one of his little songs written out. It’s ‘Little Boy Blue’—added to; Little Boy Blue and his master who found him asleep:

“The boy in the hospital liked it because he had no mother, either, except to dream of.

“It was too beautiful to last. When he was almost well and his arm was out of the sling, the little girl’s father came to talk business with him. Splendid plans for that boy her father had, but they failed abruptly. He refused to consider them, even. He refused everything except the cost of his coat and shoes, and the amount of money that was in the coat. He was an orphan and on his way to school, he said, and was obliged to have that much. He was gentle and quiet about it all, and finally the girl’s father said: ‘You are an American, all right! I like your independence. Good for you!’ And to the day of his death, he loved and admired and talked about that boy. But he never saw him again.”

“He must have been worth knowing—that father. Did they ever learn the boy’s name?”

“No. The little girl’s father would not let anybody try. Said he was probably the descendant of some proud old cotton king down South and would turn up some day, either very bad or very good—they always did. A reporter had taken a snapshot of him as he sat on the hospital cot, but her father took his camera from him by force and gave him fifty dollars in place of it. The little girl has the picture yet.”

“But if they had published the picture?”

“Oh, you didn’t know her father. He said it would be a violation of honor as between gentlemen. No, he had begun life a friendless boy himself, and he understood.”

“A beautifully told story. Tell me of the little girl who was saved.”

“There is the romance. The boy promised to come back when he became famous—”

“Ah!”

“But he has probably forgotten her, in his own struggles. She was nothing to him, after all; only a little girl child he had pulled out of the water. But she—well, as the years passed, he grew to be almost a god, in her memory. You see there were the old papers to read over, and the little picture, and the song he had given her. And there was the telling of it all, over and over, at school. Her romance became a living thing, an immortal thing.”

“I know. A thought conceived is a living thing. Expressed, it is immortal.”

“Then her mother died, and they built that beautiful window in memory of her, and then her father. Now, she is her own mistress, though an uncle imagines he is, in fact, as well as in law, her guardian. She comes nearer being his. They call her ‘a terror’ at home. Still, men have wanted to marry her, many of them, but she is unchanging in her faith that some day her hero will come back and claim her. What do you suppose her father said to her—his very last words?—‘wait for him until you are twenty-one. It takes a long time for a boy to become famous. I think I know him. He will come if he makes good, and when he does come, remember it’s fifty-fifty.’ She had never told her father of her dream, but he had guessed, and he smiled when he saw he had guessed right, and died with the smile on his face. So she waits, and waits, and waits, at times most unhappy. Do you suppose he will come back, King?”

“How could he? How could such a boy come to claim so rich a girl?” he answered earnestly. “It seems to me she would know that the boy was father to the man. Her wealth will always be between them. Besides he may have proved a dismal failure.”

“What! He?” Billee looked up indignant. “Why, he just couldn’t fail!”

“Do you really think he is bound to come back to her—when he succeeds.”

“Certainly! Don’t you?”

“I do not! Has she ever seen him again?”

“She thinks she has—once. But he did not know it. She is afraid if she sought him, she would lose him.”

“She understands him, after all, then.”

“But she doesn’t want just him. She wants him to make good. Wants him the same independent boy she remembers. She knows, too, that only in stories do New York heiresses marry poor, unknown young men. Money isn’t everything with them, though. There is something better, but they don’t all find it. A good name means a great name in New York and a great name is better than riches with the rich city girl who is free to choose her husband.”

“What a girl! What a tragedy should he have learned to love another!”

“But he can’t, King! He may not know it, but he can’t escape a love like that. It will pull him from the end of the world. She is just outside his life and her radiance is across his path. Some day she will just step in and he will recognize her. You believe in that. You said so. Love isn’t just an emotion; it’s a power. Even God wouldn’t try to tear it to pieces. He made it and—well, I guess He knows there wouldn’t be any immortality without it.”

King patted Billee’s shoulder.

“Loyal to your ideals, aren’t you? Good! When our ideals perish, the kernel’s out of the shell, the juice out of the grape!

“And such, then, is the story of the little girl whose face is in the window.”

“Yes, but wasn’t it a miracle that Mr. Church, a very ordinary man, I am told, should have dreamed just such a dream, and have guessed those little faces into it?”

“Mr. Church did not dream it,” said King very gently. The girl’s wondering eyes turned slowly toward him.

“What! Who, then?”

“The design was furnished by Beeker, Toomer & Church, but it was not Church’s work.”

“Whose, then?” And as he hesitated, she repeated the question earnestly, “Whose?” and waited breathlessly. King hesitated and stirred uneasily.

“Mine,” he said, at length. Billee sat in strained silence. The information was for the moment beyond her comprehension. Her voice was a whisper when she spoke:

“You mean—it is your work—you designed that window?”

“Yes. I am a draughtsman with Beeker, Toomer & Church, as you know. Did I never mention that art glass designs is my specialty there? Yes, it is my work. The little faces are half memory, half dream. One prays, one sleeps.”

“Yours! Yours!” Her hand tightened in the hand that again clasped it, and shook. “You—you—furnished the memorial for my—my little girl’s mother!—for Agnes Vandilever! Then you were the boy—the little girl loved! You’ve been carrying the face that was lifted above you that night—the face that slept on your breast—in your heart, all these years? Oh, King! King! it’s true! it’s true!—isn’t it?” She was trembling. Her hands tightened on his and her eyes were beseeching him.

“Yes,” he answered, at length. “I was that boy. The little faces have been with me all these years. I rather think they may have kept me out of bad company sometimes, and from loneliness.” A sob shook Billee and suddenly she slipped forward to her knees and buried her face in her arms on the pew rail. Presently King reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“It doesn’t change anything Billee. There’s but one girl in the world for me—one grown-up girl. I am sorry for Miss Vandilever’s romance, but some day she will meet and marry a real man. They always do—these story girls. My little dream girls wouldn’t know her now, nor she them. It is you, who are the older vision of them, not the painted society belle.”

“Thank you, King,” she sobbed, “that is good of you.” And then, with a wistful little smile, “Oh, King, you must succeed! Do something great! Don’t let another man steal your talents, your fame—and your sweetheart!”

IN the months that followed the meeting in the church, King saw Billee frequently. She came to him at places below Twenty-third Street usually, and he could not help but notice that she was at times a little nervous. She developed a fancy for downtown picture shows, and he began to be concerned for her. Her dress was not always what it should have been, her gloves alternated between holes and darns. Once, admitting that she was hungry, she had let him take her into one of the white restaurants scattered throughout the city and served by girls. She enjoyed it all unaffectedly, the only drawback being that her beauty made her conspicuous. Their presence in the lunch-house raised a little storm of excitement among the girls, which King noticed with uneasiness. He arrived at the conclusion, unwillingly, that he was dressed too well for the girl he was escorting.

And once, face to face with her, a gentleman paused and half raised his hat. He blocked the way. Billee’s little chin went into the air ignoring him, but King roughly shoved the fellow into the gutter.

“Shall I go back and beat him up?” he asked, overtaking Billee, who was hurrying away.

“No,” she said a little hysterically, and laughing, “come, he probably took me for someone else.” But King thought otherwise.

One evening they wandered from a picture play and found a seat in Washington Square.

“See here, Billee,” he said, “I don’t know what your secret is, but we have about reached the limit in some things. I am going to be blunt, even rude, you will think; but last week you borrowed a carfare of me and your gloves are frightful. And your dress!—come, it’s all wrong. You won’t marry me, won’t talk about it even; let’s switch off and you be just a trusting little friend in all things until your affairs straighten out. You need things. The fact keeps me unhappy. I have plenty of money; let me be banker and provide everything. And if your job isn’t pleasant or profitable, drop it. There is no need for you to do menial work or be at the beck and call of exacting old ladies. I can take care of you until you find a congenial occupation.”

But her face was something more than a study when he looked into it after the offer, which had embarrassed him not a little. Her mouth trembled and her eyes turned from him.

“You mean—you want to—want me to take a flat somewhere and—let you—pay the rent?”

“Good God, no!” She watched him as though fascinated by a vision.

“King, it would be wonderful—just to see you coming and going every day!”

“Billee!” She laughed and suddenly hid her face.

“What a boy it is, still!” She looked up shyly. “No, King, when you are your own man and successful and other men speak your name with admiration and you are so secure in your field you can marry whom you please, even a girl who has done menial work—if you want me then, I will come to you, and the flat, if you want a flat. Till then, it’s—just sweethearts.”

“Wait, then, until my office building is up,” he said, trying to disguise by affected gayety how he was touched. “Art glass was only my struggle for a foothold. I am by education an architect.”

“Your office building! Who is it for?”

“John Throckmorton. But he doesn’t know it yet.”

“John Throckmorton, the banker?” Billee gurgled and gasped. Then she suppressed a little scream and stared wildly.

“Yes, the plans are all ready.”

“Has he seen them?”

“No; there’s the hitch. He has only talked about a thirty-five story building out in Chicago, a trust fund investment. So far it has been impossible to break through the guard around him. Harvard couldn’t do it.”

She was silent a long moment, with parted lips, still staring at him.

“Listen, King. Do you believe in premonitions?”

“Hunches? Yes. Terence, my office boy, has one every time there is a big game on up at the park, and he needs somebody to finance him. They never fail.”

“I have one now. Try again—for my sake, won’t you?”

“For your sake, I’ll camp on Throckmorton’s trail like a poor relation. What time has your premonition selected?”

“To-morrow at twelve o’clock.”

“Sounds more like lunch than hunch.”

“Send your card in at twelve. Will you?”

“I’ll gamble on you once, Billee. At twelve my card goes in—for your sake. At twelve one I come out, for my own,” he laughed.

“You promise? King, I am really very superstitious.”

“So am I—about you.”

At twelve o’clock next day King handed his card to the red-headed outer guard at Banker Throckmorton’s office. To his everlasting astonishment, the boy smiled genially.

“Come in, Mr. Dubignon,” he said. And by the inner guard and the extreme inner guard and the secretary entanglements, King marched straight into the august Presence. All roads led to Rome. Ten minutes later he came out, his head in the clouds. His cherished plans for a thirty-five story office building were behind him. Billee’s eyes danced when he told her the story.

But he went no more. The banker had promised to send for him when he got a report on the plans from older architects. He did not send, and Billee was away in Boston with that restless old woman. What the devil did she want to be prancing around the country for at her age? Meaning the old woman, of course.

Hope began to shrivel. The office building grew smaller. It lost a story a day for thirty-five days. Nothing but the cellar, a hole in the ground, was left. He laid himself down in that and pulled the hole in.

And the green grass grew all around.

Then Billee came back with a rush, and things began to move. Fate had completed her gambit. She pushed a queen. The queen was Billee, of course.

A wonderful day was at hand, for King.

THE wonderful day, the day for memory, was that on which King took Billee to Coney Island. June had arrived with white dresses, canvas shoes, Palm Beach suits, straw hats and sea yearnings. Billee had telephoned him from somewhere to meet her at Bowling Green at eleven. They would take cars to the Island and come back by boat at ten to Battery Park. Her old lady was off to New England again with the Plymouth Rockers, celebrating an anniversary, and would not return until next day. Her friend, the housemaid, would sit up for her, and the subway wasn’t far. And be sure and meet her or she would die of disappointment; she had never been to Coney Island.

She was wearing something white and simple, and came with a wonder light in her eyes, swinging a little bag gayly up to his face.

“Guess,” she cried, “my one extravagance!”

“Sandwich,” he ventured. Billee screamed:

“Bathing suit, silly!”

“Great heavens! And you can pack it in that?”

“Ought I to have brought a trunk?”

“A trunk? I hate to say it.”

“Don’t.”

Now to King Dubignon was revealed a new Billee. She was the spirit of light and laughter, and the faces of all who saw her that day shone with sympathy and admiration. She was a child out of school, and seeing the world for the first time.

“Poor little girl,” he said within, an ache deep down, “she hasn’t had much fun. Never mind, it’s coming some day.” It was coming that day. It had in fact already arrived.

“King,” breathlessly, after a daring pressure of his hand, “bear with me to-day. I’m simply wild, wild! and not responsible. I’ve heard good news, great news, and it’s killing me with happiness. It’s my great day, you big, handsome, loving boy!—my boy!”

“Keep going, Billee, I’ll never stop you. Am I in on it?”

“Are you? Are you? How could it be good news if you were not?”

He was certain he had never seen anything half as funny as Billee that day, sliding down the “corkscrew,” unless it was Billee trying to navigate the whirling bowl and crawling out on hands and knees, her little jaws set hard and eyes imploring him. For they took in all the features of the Island, did all the undignified stunts, rode the wooden race horses, and flying-jennies, shot the chutes, journeyed through Wonderland, circled the Ferris wheel, shot at targets, threw rings for dolls and balls at grinning “coon” heads, saw the fat woman and alligator boy and the Hawaiian dancers.

The offer of a free trip up and five dollars by the captive balloon man, if they would marry in the air, was promptly accepted by King but spurned by Billee.

Then they ran races on the beach with other carefree couples, built sand houses with little children, ate popcorn, “hot dog” and cotton candy and saw the movies. And Billee drank a pony of beer and lit a cigarette for King.

Once they came across a wild, ragtime dance scene, and Billee screamed with delight. It seemed to be everybody’s frolic.

“Come on, King, I must dance with you!”

“But,” sadly, “it’s the one accomplishment I lack, Billee. All the others I have. My young life was not cast in ragtime circles.”

“Come, sir, come! I’ll teach you!” He went. She said it was easy. It was not easy. “It’s easy” is a fiction of the game. She did not teach him, but among the dancers was a young man, coat buttoned tight across his waist and lapels spread wide and a little felt hat slouched across his northeast temple, who handled himself and partner like a pair of Indian clubs. It was a pleasure to watch him and the little “skirt” he toyed with. His eyes met Billee’s. He left his partner in the middle of the floor, as a matter of course.

“What’s the matter, Bo’?” he said to King. “Can’t little Beauty dance?” King regarded the visitor with amusement. He was too cosmopolitan to take offense. This was New York’s playground.

“Ask her,” he said, ironically.

“Dance, kid?” said the boy cryptically, to Billee.

“Sure!” said Billee, giving her hand. And Billee danced. It was the most wonderful thing, of the kind, King had ever seen. The band was playing “Don’t Blame Me for What Happens in the Moonlight,” and the two figures, threading a marvelous path through the crowd, swayed, dipped, hesitated, glided and whirled in perfect rhythm. Billee’s face glowed with excitement, her gentian eyes half closed harbored all the fun in the world. Passing King, she called:

“Going some, friend!” Breathless, at length, she joined him.

“T’anks, lady,” said the boy, “you are sure some stepper.”

“Same here,” said Billee, politely. Billee was learning slang easily. The boy took one long look at her, his soul in his eyes.

“Gee!” he said, and turned away.

“Come, let’s get out of this,” urged King. He saw other young men moving towards them. “If that boy who put his arm around you wasn’t Bowery he passes there every day.”

“What of it? He’s all American. I like his independence.”

“So do I,” said King. “On reflection, I believe I was a little jealous.”

“He is the most direct young man I ever met. I told him I was married and he promptly called me a liar.”

Billee found a tired woman sitting in the sand, a tousled baby in her lap. She dropped down by her.

“Let me hold him, a little, won’t you, please?” The mother’s gaze rested on her face but an instant.

“Guess I will,” she said. “I want to go somewhere and eat something. My husband hasn’t come yet.” Billee took the baby, whose great eyes questioned her.

“Look, King, what beauty-brown eyes!”

“Mind your dress,” he cautioned. “He’s pretty well messed up.”

“I don’t care. I never had a chance to be a baby in the sand and smear my nose. I love him, King, just as he is.” She cuddled him up in her arms and hummed a lullaby, of the kind all women inherit and all babies understand. He was asleep when the mother came back. King’s eyes were in the sunset. One rose cloud had shaped itself into a cottage and there was a gate and a girl leaning over—then Billee woke him.

And the great round moon came up—the moon that made the moonlight where things happened that people were not to be blamed for. And Billee challenged King for a swim.

In rented bath suit, King waited for her. She came, such a vision of loveliness as Coney Island in all its glory had seldom if ever beheld. For Billee had the light, slender figure of Ariel and was clad in the conventional two-piece suit of a boy.

“Billee! For heaven’s sake, go back! or get in the water quick!”

“Why, what’s the matter, King?” she said, puzzled, and then glancing down. “It is a little short and tight, but the girl in the store said it would fit. I couldn’t try it on. You ought to know that.”

“But it’s a boy’s suit!”

“Of course. Did you think I was going to put on one of those skirt things to swim in? I have too much sense for that. I’m going swimming, not promenading, King. And I’m surprised at you. That’s false modesty. If you are going to be ugly and—and—and look at me like I was name—name—named William, and spoil my holiday—” Her voice began to tremble.

“It’s all right, Billee. Of course it isn’t your fault—ever. Come on, let’s get in the water.”

Once in the water, King’s amazement was complete, and delight unbounded. Billee could not only swim, but swim along with him. It takes a swimmer to keep along with a Georgia islander in salt water. Her far-reaching overhand and under stroke was wonderfully graceful and effective. She glided through the water with that seal-like ease so seldom seen, but oftener in woman than in man. King was beside her, measuring stroke with stroke, her radiant face flashing up in the moonlight, her cheek level with the water.

“How did you learn that, girl? It’s wonderful! wonderful!” he shouted.

“A woman, one of the world’s great swimmers, taught me,” she said, “and to wear this kind of suit. Come, let’s get in deep water.” King was already on his way to deep water. Presently he felt himself falling behind a little, and then he realized that as long as it lasted her speed was more than equal to his best.

“Great, isn’t it, King?” she breathed softly. “Friend or enemy, the ocean is always great.”

Their course was straight out; the last bather was passed.

“Careful, sir,” called a lifeguard, “the tide’ll be turning soon.”

“Right O!” sang King. “But old Father Atlantic and I are chums!”

“Show me how you float,” said Billee, resting on slow strokes, “I could never learn to float. My head will go under!” King rolled over on his back and stretched his arms ahead. He lay like a piece of driftwood, pointing seaward. Wave after wave lifted him; combers broke over, but still the figure floated on without effort of its own. She decided to try it once more. It seemed so easy, and so absurd that he could do it without effort and she fail.

But she only succeeded in getting thoroughly weary. Try as she might, her little head would sink. Then a big comber found her cross-wise in the trough of the sea and proceeded to roll and pound her unmercifully and stand her on her head. She came up gasping from an unknown depth, and struggled frantically. King heard a smothered cry.

“Steady, Billee!” he yelled. “Coming! Coming!” His arms literally tore the resisting water from his path. She caught his shoulder with one hand, gasping. He had turned instantly on his back, prepared for the struggle.

“Rest your weight on me, Billee!—both hands!—both hands!” he shouted. (You have to be positive with panicky people.) “Let your body float free!”

“Help me, King—I’m—I’m—”

“Steady, girl! Are you really all in?”

“So far”—she choked, “but I’m—I’m—” Gurgle.

“No, you’re not!”

“I am!—I am!—I am!—Oh!—Oh!—”

“Don’t lose your nerve, child!”

“Nerve!” screamed Billee, “it isn’t my nerve!—I’m losing!—I’m losing—” But water filled her mouth.

“What? What?”

“King!—string—come loose! I’m—I’m losin—!” (Shriek.) “Most gone! King, you’ve got—got to tie—that—that—string! You’ve got to! Got to! Got to!”

Woman’s wail on lonely ocean! Saddest sound in the world.

“Then-rest-both-hands-on-my-shoulders!” he said grimly, setting his jaws hard.

“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t rest—but one! I’m holding the string! Oh, King! hurry—they’re most—”

“Steady now, Billee! Hold fast! Steady!”

And King tied the string!

For an age the great ocean had swallowed him up. But he tied the string!

Billee’s face went down on his breast when he recovered breath. And there it stuck.

“Don’t worry, Billee. It’s all right.” Billee was not worrying. She was laughing and choking and gurgling. Presently came a note of alarm:

“King.” Her cheek was against his breast.

“Yes.”

“Your heart is racing—just racing. Swimming isn’t good for you. It might stop!”

“Entitled to stop,” he said. “Strong heart to stand this wild night at sea.” And then, gently, “Beating only for you now, Billee.” Silence again. Then her whisper:

“King, you awake?”

“Don’t know, Billee. Hope so.”

“Was this the way you saved the little girl?”

“Yes.”

“Cheek right here, where mine is?”

“Yes.”

“Poor little kid! I wonder if she remembers! Hand on your shoulder, like mine?”

“Yes.”

“King, love her, please! I hate to think of that little, lonesome girl, floating around with you there—and maybe loving you always—and you forgetting her!”

“Always loved her, Billee. Always shall. Loved her on the train coming up from Georgia with the old nurse. I had left my one little sister sleeping under the liveoaks. She looked like her. Went out on the deck that night, not to see the lights—I was afraid she might fall in the water.”

“Oh!—Oh!—Oh!” wailed Billee.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Cry—cry—crying—a little, I guess, King.”

“Don’t cry.”

“But it breaks—my heart!”

“Why, what is it?” Silence. And then:

“Floating around, like this, King. It’s awful! Floating around in the ocean, this a-way. And no chaperone!”

“Except the moon.”

“And not—engaged, even!”

“Awful, Billee!”

“King, can you float with only one hand behind you, like you did that night?”

“Yes, Beautiful, without either.”

“Lend me one—up here, please—the left one.” He gave her the hand, much puzzled. Slipping from his finger the little circlet of gold, she placed it on her own, in silence. And in silence her cheek lay again on his breast.

“Billee,” he whispered, in awe, “Billee!” Then she lifted herself a little and Father Ocean, with a deep intake of breath, lifted her a little more. Only her finger tips touched his shoulders; her body floated free. She hovered over him as Psyche over the sleeping god, her lips, one moment, on his: “Just sweethearts,” she whispered, and was gone.

King never forgot the picture that followed. Try as he might, he could not overtake her. Into and out of the waves, over and under, she fled, a moonbeam, a silver fish. Once, for a single, marvelous moment, she sprung half out of the foam crest of a giant roller, her face turned back, her fallen hair strewn around it. A hand was lifted, beckoning. Then, a white flash, and down the slope beyond she vanished.

“The ideal!” he murmured, “the ideal!” He followed. He had been following all his life.

NOW that Fate had gotten her stride, things moved fast. King was in the office of Mr. Church checking up some plans, when the great banker, Throckmorton, was ushered in by Mr. Beeker in person. He did not look up. He was more than a little sore that so long a time should have elapsed since his plans went into the banker’s hands without a decision having been arrived at. So much depended on those plans.

Mr. Throckmorton’s visit was an event of note. He usually sent for the men he wanted to see; he did not visit. Mr. Church was on his feet instantly. The visitor did not take the proffered seat but began with bluff geniality:

“So, it was you, Mr. Church, who designed our memorial window! Mrs. Vandilever was my sister, you know—I am glad to meet you in person. I want to consult with reference to some changes in the Vandilever residence and the possible use of certain features of the window. Those little faces—”

“That was one of the firm’s designs, Mr. Throckmorton”—King’s presence had forced his hand—“I can’t claim the credit. Individuals don’t count here. It’s the old newspaper ‘we,’ you know.”

“But I want to consult the actual artist—the creator—for a special reason, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, sir. Oh, Mr. Dubignon, you originated the general idea in the Vandilever window, did you not?” Mr. Church turned with a show of indifference to the draughtsman, who now looked up, a slight smile on his lips.

“Yes,” he said, “and the details, also, if I remember right.”

“Hello, Dubignon, you here? Glad to meet you again,” said the banker, to the profound amazement of Mr. Church. “I have a mind to tear away the hall glass around home for something that tells a story. Can you run around this evening for a little professional talk? Shall want the same child faces you used in the church. They closely resemble a niece of mine who is to be with us Christmas, and I am planning a surprise. Come at eight thirty.”

And promptly at eight thirty, as testified by little chimes in the great hallway, King entered the home of the great banker—fairyland, it seemed.

Back in his own room, an hour later, he sat and stared out over the white city, as one who had dreamed an exquisite dream and could not clear his eyes of it. He had been employed, or the firm he served had, through him, to compose a strange picture in glass—a picture of remarkable significance for him. What an exquisite comedy! The commission was carte blanche as to price and the central figure was to be himself—humble draughtsman! It was too much for his sense of humor. He threw back his head and laughed long and loud. Oh, for ten minutes of Billee! Where the deuce was Billee, anyway? And why didn’t Mr. Throckmorton talk about the plans he already had? He had casually, he hoped it sounded that way, inquired of him as to how the office building matter was coming on, and had been told, casually, it certainly sounded that way, that he hadn’t got a report yet.

Fate moved again. Fate had certainly waked up. This time she moved a castle.

“Sit down, Dubignon.” King took the nearest chair, a little weakly. It was his first summons to the senior partner’s room. Now that man of business leaned back from his desk and surveyed him with interest. What had happened? And then:

“I have reported favorably on the plans you submitted to Throckmorton. They are fine. A man doesn’t have to plan but one such building to make good. Dubignon, you are wasted in stained glass. Throckmorton informs me that he will accept the plans and finance the building. The firm of Beeker, Toomer & Dubignon will erect it.” He pushed a paper across the desk for King to sign, and proffered a pen.

“Sir!”

“Rather sudden, I know; but Toomer and I have bought out Church and you are in. There are no details. The building you bring in settles all.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I think I should like to go out and faint awhile.”

“Go when you please. Partners don’t ask permission. Hunt her up, my boy, and tell her about it. There’s always a ‘her’ in a young man’s life. There was in mine.”

“The trouble is, sir, I don’t know where my ‘her’ is. I seem to have lost her.”

“Don’t bother. She’ll turn up. They always do. Here, you are going without signing the papers.” King signed, and shook hands fervently.

Mr. Beeker drew a box of Havanas from his desk and taking one shoved the others across to him.

“Tell me the truth, Dubignon”—his face was full of smiles and he leaned back, cutting the cigar—“did you put those plans across on old Throckmorton before he had decided to put up any building at all?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“And you refused to alter your plans to suit his frontage—made him buy $269,000 worth more?”

“I couldn’t change the proportions, sir, to fit his frontage. It would have cut my building to thirty stories.” Mr. Beeker looked at him affectionately.

“My boy, will you mind if I tell you the difference between a crank and a genius?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“A genius is a crank who has succeeded. You’ve had a narrow escape.”

But King went back half blind with excitement to his office to find that a postman had left some letters, and Terence, good old Terence, had placed one with a zigzag address on top. It was more of a jumping than a running hand, and had become associated in the mind of the observant Irish lad with dollar tips. It was from Billee in California. The old lady had carried her off to Los Angeles and she hadn’t said goodbye because she knew she would cry on the street, and would he please forgive her, she was so unhappy. And, yes, she was coming home soon; and the little circle in the letter was made by running a pencil around a certain ring. She had laid a kiss in the circle and hoped it wouldn’t fall out. The spot on the paper close by? She had forgotten to wipe her eyes. All this and more.

The cicada wears his homely brown suit seven years, and rambles around in the dark underground, perfectly content. Then something happens to him inside and he comes up, crawls on a limb and presently splits his suit wide open down the back. Now he is out with iridescent wings, a guitar under his arm, and life is one long, sweet summer dream.

New York was getting uncomfortably small for King Dubignon. The world itself didn’t feel too large.

Then the window at the end of the Throckmorton hall was finished by the factory and skilled workmen placed it. King went around by appointment to view it Christmas eve with the arc light of the street shining through, the hall lights dimmed. It represented a river night scene, New York’s skyline in the distance and the stars above. On the water in the foreground floated a boy and on his breast lay the face of a sleeping child, her arms clasping his shoulders. A beam of light disclosed the two faces. In design, in execution, in effect, it was admirable. Even King, sitting off up the hallway with Mr. Throckmorton, for the perspective, could find no fault, though, naturally, modesty checked pride.

And then to King Dubignon came the shock by which all other emotions measured as tremors. It was as though lightning had descended on his uncovered head. For a lady’s maid, in cap and apron, stood by Mr. Throckmorton, saying:

“A call, sir, at the private phone.” And that maid was Billee. She saw him as he swayed to his feet, and drew back timidly, lifting a warning hand behind the banker’s vanishing form.

“Billee!” he gasped. “You! You!” He rushed toward her, but she side-stepped hurriedly, whispering:

“Don’t, King! Think of what you are doing! This house, a waiting maid! It’s ruin for you! Don’t spoil all! And think of me!” He hesitated and sank groaning into a chair.

“I was thinking of you,” he said weakly.

“Are you so sorry for me as that?” she said, standing with downcast eyes.

“Sorry? Sorry for you? Just wait till I get you outside. Sorry? Child, we’ve got the biggest thing coming you ever dreamed of! I am full partner in the firm now. It’s Beeker, Toomer & Dubignon. I’ve made good! Have you seen the evening papers? Every notable piece of work I have done for New York is mentioned; there is a picture of my office building, and all about my family. Billee, the world is mine, and you are the most wonderful thing in it!”

“But I—I am only—” she glanced down at her dress. “Oh, King, you are beyond me now. You won’t need Billee any more.”

“Need you! I’ve made good for two,” he shouted, “and Billee is the other one.” Billee’s hands were behind her. Now, slowly they were withdrawn, bringing away the apron and revealing the simple short dress of a child. The little cap of the housemaid was lifted, and from beneath it fell down a long plait of hair, ribboned at the end. She came slowly and kneeled by him and lifted her face. Upon it the window shed its tints. She seemed to float in a golden mist.

“The little dream girl—praying!” he whispered in awe.

Then with closed eyes she laid her cheek on his breast, her arms half enfolding him.

“And this one, King?” But King was beyond further speech.

Doubtingly, reverently he touched the little head. His lips parted for one long, deep breath, while the furniture in the room whirled about him in a most absurd manner.

“Well!” she said, at length, her eyes opening and mouth curving into the challenging smile. “I did it of my own free will. Why don’t you?”

Again the inevitable happened, but this time Billee did not struggle nor King ask forgiveness.

“Oh, King!” she whispered gently, freeing herself at length and taking his face between her soft hands, “my splendid boy-man, you said you’d come back when you were famous, didn’t you? King, all that my father, my mother had are mine—this house—everything—mine and yours. It’s our Christmas! Let’s always be ‘just sweethearts’.”

An old man who was peeping in at the door drew a deep breath, smiled and went back to his den and chair to pick up a paper wherein was a noble building of thirty-five stories. But his eyes closed over it, the room blurred, and his head sank back among the cushions. It was May in New England and the bees and apple blossoms were there, and green fields and the song birds and a little sister with the lovelight in her eyes.

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