"Here it is," he answered, reaching into his pocket and producing a letter which he handed to Florence.

It was addressed in Marion Sanderson's hand. Florence hastily broke the seal and read as follows:

"DEAREST FLORENCE:--

"I have never forgiven you for your sudden flight last winter, and the offense is of such long standing that I summon you to appear in Chicago before Derby Day to answer a charge of infidelity to me. You will be imprisoned here for at least one month,--longer if possible,--and I charge Mr. Wainwright with the execution of this warrant. In other words, dearest girl, I cannot live any longer without seeing you, and must have you here for a visit. Pack up and come immediately, as the Derby is a great 'function' here, and is run on the twenty-first of June.

"With a world of love, "I am, your devoted "MARION."

"Did you come all the way from Chicago to bring me this?" Florence asked, after she had finished the letter.

Harold was sitting up now, and looking into her face he said quietly: "I came to tell you again that I love you."

Florence felt a sudden emotion thrill her heart, but a doubtful expression came into her eyes as she glanced down and said slowly: "You forget what happened the day before I left Chicago."

Harold smiled. He took her hand and held it firmly between his own. "I remember that you are the bravest girl in the world," he said, "and that, to save a friend, you accused yourself."

"You don't know that," said Florence anxiously.

"I know that nothing could make me believe you did wrong, for you are incapable of it." Then he added earnestly: "I know, too, that I love you better than my life."

Florence looked up into his face and he must have read her answer in those gentle, brown eyes, for, without waiting for her to speak, he drew her to his side and kissed her on both cheeks. "I love you, I love you,"

he repeated, as he held her tightly in his strong arms; "but I must hear love spoken by those dear lips."

"I love you, Harold," she said, and the words made his heart leap with happiness.

"Then why were you so cruel to me last winter?" he asked reproachfully.

"I did not know it then," she answered. "It was not until I left the smoky city and came away into the free country air that I knew I cared for you, Harold, dear."

"I wondered you cared for me at all," he replied laughingly. "We had been friends so long that it was strange for me to speak of love."

"Yes; I always believed that love was some giant who crushes one by his mighty power," she said, "and I found he was a little rascal who stole into my heart before I knew he was anywhere about. But, O, Harold, I am so happy now."

She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up into his face again.

He kissed her, and, as he did so, the wind caught Marion Sanderson's note lying in her lap, and carried it out onto the lake, where, resting on the water, it sailed slowly away toward the western sh.o.r.e. Harold saw it and asked what message it bore from her to Marion.

"I had forgotten the note," she answered. "It makes me think of that woman and the danger poor Marion was in. I had better not go to Chicago," she said, after a moment's thought.

"Why not, sweet one?" asked Harold.

"Because of that woman. She would say such things about me."

Harold smiled. "Don't you think they would have been said long ago, if she had intended saying them?" he asked.

"Perhaps she did say them, though I have heard nothing, and one usually hears the unpleasant things that are said of one."

"I know you have heard nothing, dear," he replied, "and I know you never will."

"You forget what I admitted to her, and you don't know what a spiteful woman is capable of."

"I know Mrs. McSeeney," he said.

"And you think that she can be trusted? I am surprised at you, Harold."

"I think she is the last woman in the world I would trust," he replied.

"Then what do you mean?" she asked.

"Mrs. McSeeney and I are old acquaintances. I think I can answer for her."

"You speak in enigmas, Harold, and you ought not to keep any secrets from me, you know."

"I don't think you had better ask to know more," he said laughingly.

"But I do," she answered.

"Then I obey. Mrs. McSeeney and I were at Bar Harbor the same summer. I got to know her very well, perhaps better than she liked."

"Well, what has that to do with the affair in Chicago?" Florence asked impatiently.

"Nothing much except that Mrs. McSeeney thinks it would be wise never to mention it."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. It is a secret between Mrs. McSeeney and myself."

"Harold Wainwright," she said, in a tone of authority that startled him, "I forbid you to have any secrets from me."

"Well," replied Harold, "if you command me to tell more, I must admit that Mrs. McSeeney and I had a confidential talk directly after it happened, and I persuaded her that she had better not mention the matter again."

"You persuaded her? How ridiculous! You must have threatened her with something. What was it?"

"I merely asked her if she remembered a certain evening at Bar Harbor when there was a _fete_ at the Canoe Club."

"Well, what of it? I don't see anything unusual in that."

"I can't tell you more; only when I reminded her of that evening she acknowledged that it would be discreet for her to remain silent concerning you and Marion Sanderson. You see I happened accidentally to observe some of Mrs. McSeeney's actions on that occasion, and, considering that you were in her power, I felt justified in informing her of the fact."

"Then it was you who saved Marion and me from her spiteful tongue," said Florence in a relieved tone. "You don't know how grateful I am, and how I have worried over that matter."

"You need worry no longer, my girl," replied Harold. "But I must tell you again how plucky you were to try to save your friend in the way you did, and now let's forget all about it."

"Yes, dear," said Florence fondly. "We have pleasanter things to think of."

"'Tis true, my darling," he replied, taking both of her hands in his.

"To-day you have made me the happiest man in the world. Do you know why I love you?"

"No; why?"