Beaming with the excitement that comes from narrative of self, the newcomer talked animatedly for some time.

"And," she concluded, "Mrs. Kingdon said you told her all about me, and she sent me a ticket to come here. And it's lovely up here, isn't it? She told me I'd better keep to the name of Bobbie Burr for the present, until she came anyway."

"I should say!" agreed Pen. "Marta Sills might land you in most unpleasant places. But, Marta, that man you told me about, whose name you didn't mention?"

"Yes, Miss Lamont. I try not to think of him."

"Marta, why did you tell him that you stole. You could have married him.

He'd never have known. And you and he could both have been happy."

In the girl's wondering eyes, Pen read a mute rebuke.

"I'd rather lose him forever than deceive him!"

"Marta," said Pen impressively, "Diogenes should have known you."

"Who is he, Miss Lamont?"

"Never mind, Marta. I thought I knew what love meant, but I see I didn't until now. If I loved a man as you do yours, I would stop stealing if I had to cut my hands off to do it."

"I have stopped. I know now that I could have stopped long ago, if any one had given me the right boost, or made me want to stop."

Just then Pen's eyes caught sight of a trunk in the corner of her room.

"What's that here for?" she asked.

"Oh, please, Miss Lamont, I brought it to you. I never touched anything in it. I earned enough to buy what I am wearing and a few things in my suitcase, besides what I had on that day--"

"Marta, that's sweet in you. I am beginning to feel I'd like to tog once more. I shall reward you. But first, will you do something for me?"

"You know I will be glad to do anything."

"I want a note delivered. I'll write it now."

Hastily she wrote a few lines at her desk.

"Come with me, Marta. We'll have to go to a certain vine-clad pergola by devious routes to avoid three wise children and one suspicious and formidable foreman."

By much circ.u.mambulation the two girls reached the pergola unseen.

"You sit here for a few moments, Marta, and the person to whom you are to give the note will come to you."

Pen walked on to the barracks where she met Jo.

"Will you do something for me, Jo? Right away, quick?"

"Sure thing, Miss Penny Ante. What did his nibs want?"

"Never mind, now. Go to the pergola and receive a note from me. Now don't be stupid. Do as you are told,--like a good soldier does."

With a laugh Jo started in swinging gait for the place indicated, but he was halted several times by some of the men who wanted directions for their work.

After waiting patiently, Marta concluded Pen's plans had miscarried, so she started for the house, but becoming confused as to turns, she went toward the barracks.

To a little girl whose life had been spent in slums and reformatories, the big s.p.a.ces and silences were more appalling than the wildest hours of traffic on misguided State Street. She had a strange inclination to walk down hill backward that she might not see what other ascension must be made.

"If I'd only been born as high up as this, maybe I'd never have got down so low," she philosophized.

She came around a bend in the road. A man was approaching. He looked up.

"Marta, oh, Marta!"

"Jo!" she cried wildly, looking about for retreat.

Another second, in his arms, she thought no longer of flight.

"Marta, how did you ever get here?" Wild astonishment was visible in Jo's eyes.

"Mrs. Kingdon sent for me. I've been killed with kindness ever since that night I saw you, Jo. I didn't know you were here. Miss Lamont told me to stay in that place where the vines are until a man came, and to give him this note; but that was long ago. I came out and lost my way. Are you the man she meant?"

"I must be."

"Does she know that you--that we--"

"Sure she knows. Give me the note."

He removed the little folded paper from the envelope and read it aloud:

"DEAR JO: Here is your heart-ease. Don't let doubt kill your love.

Just take Marta. A woman loves an audacious lover.

"Yours, "PENNY ANTE."

"I feel sort of crazy. Gee, Marta, but it's great to be crazy! Let's sit down here and talk about it. You don't need to tell me much. She told me.

Why didn't you let me hear from you?"

"I wanted to be sure, Jo. I'm not going to make excuses for myself, but I had it handed to me hard. Whenever I thought I'd like to be like other folks, some one would give me a shoveback, and then I felt cornered and that it was no use. Sometimes--most always--I was down and out. Then I'd hit a little lucky wave and go up. It was one of those times I saw you in that dance hall."

"That was _my_ lucky wave. I can see you now as you sat away from the rest--so little and so different-looking from those tough ones."

"And I can see you--alone, by yourself; you looked different from anyone I'd ever seen, so healthy and jolly and kind. I saw you looking at me and knew right off what you thought--that I was straight and had got in the wrong place by mistake. And I let you think so and let you get to know me.

And we danced and talked till near sunrise. That lovely day over at St.

Joe! I thought I was in Heaven until we were in that little park and you asked me to marry you. First time a real man ever asked me that. I wasn't low enough to fool you then. When you said it made no difference, I knew you were too good for me, and it made me love you so much that I had to run away."

"It was sure great in you to tell me, Marta."

"You know how I got help and hope; but I'm not Marta now, Jo. Not any more. I'm Bobbie Burr."