One evening, about two weeks after West had left New York for Denver, Alice Pope, Edith's sister, came down to the Roxborough for the purpose of spending the evening.

The two girls were very much alike in temperament and training and had always been great friends, confiding to each other most of the affairs of their rather uneventful existence. Alice was two years younger than Edith, and while not so handsome a woman, was the stronger nature of the two; as was evidenced by her somewhat more firmly molded chin, her lips, less full than Edith's, and her gray eyes, which, set somewhat more closely together, gave to her face an expression of shrewdness and determination only relieved by her good-natured and rather large mouth.

She was not a frequent visitor at the Rogers' apartment, at least in the evening, as she and Donald did not get along very well--they were good enough friends, but neither found the other very congenial. Alice thought Donald hard and unsympathetic, a feeling which arose largely from the tales of woe with which Edith so frequently regaled her.

Donald, feeling this att.i.tude of criticism, and too proud to attempt to controvert it, remained silent, which but convinced Alice the more of his lack of warmth and geniality. Thus the two preserved a sort of armed neutrality, the effect of which was to keep them forever at arm's length.

Edith was in a state of extreme nervousness, and even the pretense of looking at a magazine hardly served to conceal the fact from Donald--he would inevitably have noticed it, had he not been busily occupied at his desk.

The cause of her nervousness reposed safely within the bosom of her dress. It was a letter from West which had come for her, three days before, and its contents had caused her the gravest concern. She felt glad that Alice was coming--glad that Donald had decided to go out for a stroll. She had been inwardly debating the advisability of taking her sister into her confidence, when the door-bell rang.

It was about eight o'clock, and Donald was just going out to post his letters.

"h.e.l.lo, Sis!" said Alice, as she came in, then she nodded to Donald.

"Good-evening, Alice," Edith replied. "Where's mother? I thought she was coming with you."

"She'll be along presently." The girl took off her long pony-skin coat and threw it carelessly upon the couch. "She stopped at Mrs. Harrison's for a few minutes to return a book she had borrowed." She shivered slightly. "Pretty cold, isn't it? Never knew such a late spring."

Edith turned to Donald, who was putting on his coat. "Get some quinine capsules, Donald--two grain. Bobbie's cold is worse to-night."

"Have you had the doctor?" inquired her husband.

"Oh, no, it isn't as bad as that. Just a little fever."

"Very well. I'll be back presently." He took up his hat and went out.

Edith, instead of joining her sister, began to walk aimlessly about the room. She had with difficulty concealed her agitation from Donald, and, now that he had gone, she still could not decide whether or not it would be wisdom on her part to confide in her sister. She felt the necessity of confiding in someone.

Alice presently observed the nervousness, and commented upon it in her usual frank way. "For heaven's sake, Edith," she remarked, "sit down.

Don't walk about like that. You make me nervous. What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Oh, nothing!" Edith threw herself dispiritedly into a chair, and, with an expression which bespoke an utter weariness of spirit, gazed moodily at her hands, roughened and red from the washing of dishes.

"Nothing?" said Alice, looking at her closely. "You look as though you had lost your last friend."

"Perhaps I have." The answer was significant, although to Alice it meant nothing.

"What do you mean by that?" she inquired. "I think you might try to be a little more agreeable. It wouldn't hurt you any. If you are going to sit here and hand out chunks of gloom all the evening, I think I'll go home." It was characteristic of Alice to be determinedly cheerful on all occasions, a trait born not so much of any inherent optimism as of a dislike for being made uncomfortable.

Edith looked at her hesitatingly. "Don't mind me, Alice," she presently observed, in an apologetic voice, "I'm worried."

"Do you suppose I can't see that? You've been acting like an Ibsen play for the past three days. Why don't you get it off your mind?" She hitched her chair about, and faced her sister with a curious look. "I'm safe enough. You ought to know that by this time. Come--out with it.

What's wrong? Let's have the awful details."

"It isn't anything to joke about," remarked Edith, not entirely relishing her sister's tone.

"I'm not joking--not a bit of it. If you are in any trouble, Sis, you know you can count on me. I may be able to help you out; two heads are better than one, you know."

With a sudden glance, Edith decided to take her sister into her confidence. Her question, quick and unexpected, aroused Alice to new interest. "Do you like Billy West?" she asked.

"Billy West? Of course I do. What's he got to do with it?"

"Everything!"

Alice hitched her chair still closer, and looked at her sister in surprise. "You don't mean to say--?" she began, then concluded her remark with a significant whistle.

"Alice," said her sister, "you've known Billy for a long time. You know he is one of Donald's best friends--"

"I always thought so. He must like one of you pretty well, judging by the amount of time he spends here."

"You didn't know, perhaps, that he was very much in love with me, years ago, before he went to Colorado."

"I always suspected it. Pity you didn't marry him. He made about half a million out there, didn't he, in that gold mine?"

"I don't know just what he made. That has nothing to do with it. Ever since he came back to New York to live, three months ago, I've seen a great deal of him--"

"I should say you had. If I hadn't thought him such a good friend of Donald's I'd have been suspicious long ago. I've envied you often enough, your auto rides, and luncheons at the Knickerbocker, and dinners, and theater parties. He doesn't mind spending his money--that's one thing sure, but I never thought--" She paused and looked at her sister with renewed interest. "Is he in love with you now?"

"Yes." Edith spoke slowly--almost as though to herself. The thought was apparently not distasteful to her.

"You don't say so! The plot thickens. So that's why he's been here morning, noon and night. Does Donald know?"

"Donald! Of course not."

"Has Billy said anything?"

"Said anything? To whom?"

"To you, of course. Has he told you that he still loves you?"

"Yes."

"That wasn't exactly fair of him." Alice was a good deal of a Puritan at heart, and not at all lacking in frankness. "He ought not to have done it. I'm not so strong for Donald, goodness knows, but it strikes me as being pretty rough on him, just the same. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, and I told Billy so."

"What did he say?"

"He said he had tried his best to keep from telling me, all these months. He went away, once, in April, you remember, and stayed nearly a month, to try to forget, but it didn't do any good. He says he loves me more every day, and at last he had to tell me of it--he couldn't keep from it any longer."

"Well, what good has it done? He has sense enough to see that it's perfectly hopeless, hasn't he?"

"No, that's the worst of it."

Alice sat back in her chair in alarm. "Good heavens, Edith," she gasped, "you must be losing your mind."

"Why?"