QUEER PATTERNS

By

Lilyan Brock

Queer Patterns

By Lilyan Brock

First published in 1952.

ISBN: 978-1-936456-15-4

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

INTRODUCTION

A new revolution was underway at the start of the 1940s in America—a paperback revolution that would change the way publishers would produce and distribute books and how people would purchase and read them.

In 1939 a new publishing company—Pocket Books—stormed onto the scene with the publication of its first paperbound book. These books were cheaply produced and sold in numbers never before seen, in large part due to a bold and innovative distribution model that soon after made Pocket Books available in drugstores, newsstands, bus and train stations, and cigar shops. The American public could not get enough of them, and before long the publishing industry began to take notice of Pocket Book’s astonishing success.

Traditional publishers, salivating at the opportunity to cash in on the phenomenal success of the new paperback revolution, soon launched their own paperback ventures. Pocket Books was joined by Avon in 1941, Popular Library in 1942, and Dell in 1943. The popular genres reflected the tastes of Americans during World War II—mysteries, thrillers, and “hardboiled detective” stories were all the rage.

World War II proved to be a boon to the emerging paperback industry. During the war, a landmark agreement was reached with the government in which paperbound books would be produced at a very low price for distribution to service men and women overseas. These books were often passed from one soldier or sailor to another, being read and re-read over and over again until they literally fell apart. Their stories of home helped ease the servicemen’s loneliness and homesickness, and they could be easily carried in uniform pockets and read anywhere—in fox holes, barracks, transport planes, etc. Of course, once the war was over millions of veterans returned home with an insatiable appetite for reading. They were hooked, and their passion for reading these books helped launch a period of unprecedented growth in the paperback industry.

In the early 1950s new subgenres emerged—science fiction, lesbian fiction, juvenile delinquent and “sleaze”, for instance—that would tantalize readers with gritty, realistic and lurid stories never seen before. Publishers had come to realize that sex sells. In a competitive frenzy for readers, they tossed away their staid and straightforward cover images for alluring covers that frequently featured a sexy woman in some form of undress, along with a suggestive tag line that promised stories of sex and violence within the covers. Before long, books with sensational covers had completely taken over the paperback racks and cash registers. To this day, the cover art of these vintage paperback books are just as sought after as the books themselves were sixty years ago.

With the birth of the lesbian-themed pulp novel, women who loved women would finally see themselves -- their experiences and their lives -- represented within the pages of a book. They finally had a literature they could call their own. Of course, that’s not what the publishers of the day intended – these books were written primarily for men… indeed shamelessly packaged and published to titillate the male reading public.

Many of the books were written by men using female pseudonyms and were illustrated by cover artists who never read the content between the covers. However, a good percentage (primarily titles from Fawcett’s Gold Medal Books imprint) were written by women, most of whom were lesbians themselves. For lesbians across the country, especially those living isolated lives in small towns, these books provided a sense of community they never knew existed… a connection to women who experienced the same longings, feelings and fears as they did – the powerful knowledge that they were not alone.

We are excited to make these wonderful paperback stories available in ebook format to new generations of readers. We present them in their original form with very little modification so as to preserve the tone and atmosphere of the time period. In fact, much of the language—the slang, the colloquialisms, the lingo, even the spellings of some words—appear as they were written fifty or sixty years ago. The stories themselves reflect the time period in which they were written, reflecting the censorship, sensibilities and biases of the 1950s and early 1960s. Still, these lesbian pulp novels are a treasure in our collective literary history and we hope you will enjoy this nostalgic journey back in time.

CONTENTS

Part One              Philip Rowan

Part Two              Nicoli

Part Three              Allison Graham

Part Four              The Alden Place

Part Five              Jo Trent

Part Six              Always

Part Seven              Dust

PART ONE

Philip Rowan

The final curtain had fallen, and backstage stage hands were busy striking the set and disconnecting the powerful lights in the wings preparatory to placing them against the back wall for the night. Only a few moments ago these dull inanimate objects with their metal frames containing colored sheets of gelatin had been alive. Their vari-colored beams had shone brilliantly on the shimmery gowns that seemed to be molded on the exquisitely formed bodies of stately show girls... on the filmy costumes of swaying dancers... on the handsome figure of a young man in white military uniform and the beautiful fair-haired, dark-eyed girl he held in his arms. Now the theater was empty—void of the gay audience and its appreciative applause that had marked another successful evening. The heavy velvet curtain had been raised, disclosing rows of lately vacated seats bathed in the rays from a large bench light set down stage to flood the house.

Sheila Case walked wearily toward her dressing room, seemingly unmindful of the confusion around her. She had given a good performance, one that had been most graciously received, but now she was tired: tired of the theater, tired of the shrill, high voices of the chorus girls as they laughed and chattered gaily while they removed their make-up, tired of the noisy actors as they talked merrily on their way to their dressing rooms. Arriving at her room on the other side of the stage, Sheila saw Philip Rowan standing at her door waiting, the coat to the uniform he wore in the show hanging over his arm.

He was a handsome man, tall and dark, with a slim, well-built body that fitted perfectly his role as leading man.

"Tired, Sheila?" he asked solicitously as she came up to him. "Dreadfully so!" The words came forth with a sigh. "I feel as though I could sleep a week."

"Your work tonight was great." Philip's clear-cut features were wreathed in admiration. "You had them in the palm of your hand right from the beginning."

Sheila smiled wearily. "They were nice to me, weren't they?" Philip came closer. "Sheila, I know you're tired, but don't you think you'd feel better if we go some place for a bite to eat and then drive through the park?" He hesitated—"I'd rather hoped you would. I want to talk to you. Besides, the air will do you good—make you sleep."

"You're a darling, Phil—always looking after me. All right, we'll go—I shan't be long."

"Good! I knew you would. I'll take my make-up off in a jiffy, get the car, and pick you up out front."

Sheila's eyes followed him as he strode rapidly across the stage; then, turning, she walked into her dressing room. Seated before her make-up shelf she gazed steadily for a moment at the lovely features reflected in the smooth silvery surface of the mirror: large, velvety brown eyes, full, sensitive mouth, and dainty chin. The yellow of her fine waving hair caught the light and held it captive in a golden prison. Thoughtfully she brushed it back from her high forehead and with slender tapering fingers applied cold cream to her face to remove the grease paint.

Philip was so thoughtful of her, she reflected. Why—why couldn't she return in some slight degree the deeper emotions he felt for her? Dismissing the troublesome thoughts from her mind, she hastened in her dressing and a few minutes later passed through the stage door into the street. Philip's car rounded the corner and drew silently up to the curb.

"Waiting long, Sheila?" he asked as he leaned over the wheel and opened the door of the roadster.

"Not a minute, Phil—I just came out."

"Good. Now where do you want to go for something to eat?"

"If you're not too hungry, I believe I'd rather drive first; I think I need air more than food—the theater was frightfully stuffy tonight."

"Your word is a command, your majesty," Philip replied with mock solemnity; "we drive."

It was good not to be alone, Sheila decided, as the car threaded its way through the traffic. Somehow tonight she felt the need of his understanding companionship more than ever before. Always it seemed she fought the desire to belong to someone—to have someone who loved her by her side. Sheila knew that Philip loved her with all the strength in his virile young body. Repeatedly he had asked her to marry him, but always in her heart had been something that had warned her that marriage was not the answer to her longings. But later, as they drove through Central Park, Sheila found herself thinking that perhaps what she felt for Philip was, after all, all there was to life and love. He had been most considerate, scarcely speaking, but allowing her to lie back in the deep cushions and rest. The night air felt cool and refreshing on Sheila's face as it gently caressed her cheeks, almost lulling her to sleep.

Philip's voice roused her: "Shall we park for a moment? I want to talk to you."

Sheila nodded assent, and Philip brought the car to a stop at the side of the drive. Switching off the motor he turned, and putting his arm around Sheila's slender shoulders, drew her to him.

"Sheila, darling, you know how mad I am about you—how I love you and want you! Won't you marry me? Somehow I can't see anything ahead unless we can go on together. There is no future without you. Please, dearest, say you will."

In answer to his earnest plea, Sheila raised her head, and pulling him down, gently kissed him. "Yes, Phil; I think... I need you too—I am so alone."

Philip's arms closed tightly around Sheila; he kissed her tenderly. Then, "You've made me so happy! I've dreamed so long that one day we would belong to each other. Can't we be married soon?"

Sheila thought for a moment. "Well, we close here this week, then we have a week's layoff before we open in Chicago. I'll tell you—why not take that time for our honeymoon?"

"That's a great idea; we'll do it," Philip exclaimed. "I know just the place where we can go. I shan't tell you where, but it's a favorite spot of mine. I manage to get up there every now and then between shows. I want you to see it."

* * *

Sheila and Philip were married in the "Little Church Around the Corner" with only a few friends from the company attending their wedding. Sheila was lovely in the black velvet suit she wore, with its luxurious silver fox collar making a beautiful frame for her blonde beauty. Philip had sent her a corsage of white orchids, which she wore on the soft fur. As he looked at her at the altar he felt certain that there had never been a more beautiful bride, and in his heart he thanked God for having placed her in his care.

That night at the theater, after the last act had ended, the company gave a wedding supper for them. This came as a complete surprise, for when the performance ended there had been no sign of the elaborately laid table that they saw later upon coming out of their dressing rooms.

There was much gaiety as the company gathered around to express good wishes and drink to their happiness. Even the newspaper men who attended seemed to think it the ideal marriage of the season.

A few hours later, amid the noisy goodbyes and good natured wishes for continued happiness from their friends and fellow performers, Sheila and Philip left the theater. As they got into the car and started toward their hotel they were both very close to tears—the unexpected thoughtfulness of the company had touched deeply. It was good to know that they would see them all again the following week in Chicago.

They had decided to leave New York early the next morning and Philip's luggage had that afternoon been sent to Sheila's hotel where they would spend their wedding night.

During the short drive Sheila found herself wondering what it would seem like to share her privacy from now on with a husband—to give not only part of her room but herself as well. How could she reconcile the strange being within her to that? Her thoughts were broken by Philip's voice: "Do you realize, darling, we're actually married, and now you're all mine?" Not waiting for an answer he went on, "I've dreamed that one day you would be—but now that it's really happened I can scarcely believe it."

"It is like a dream"; Sheila's voice was low. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and find it was one."

Philip's heart beat faster at the implied happiness in Sheila's answer.

He drew up in front of the hotel. "I'll put the car away and then I'll be right up."

When a few minutes later she heard the door of the room close behind him, she had just stepped out of the shower. The cool needle spray had felt stimulating and had brought the blood tingling to the surface of her firm young body— a body made for love, from the soft rounded pink-tipped breasts to the firm alabaster white of promising thighs and slender limbs ... a fitting shrine for passion and its fulfillment.

Sheila finished brushing her hair, turned to put on the ivory satin gown that hung in graceful folds on the inside of the door; then sliding her feet into a pair of dainty mules walked into the room where Philip sat impatiently waiting.

He rose when she entered and crossed the room to take her in his arms. His hungry mouth claimed her own, then deserting it, wandered over the smoothness of her throat and shoulders. "I shan't be but a minute, darling," he whispered huskily. ... "I want you so."

Philip's words rang in Sheila's ears as she lay waiting. Over and over she asked herself why they had sounded so formidable. Why did not she too feel the anxiety of them? Why did the effect which she so perceptibly had upon him arouse no reciprocal feeling within herself?

The door of the bathroom opened and Philip's pajama clad figure emerged.

Sheila tried desperately to speak. The words simply would not come... the tiny bed lamp was extinguished... a form slipped silently into the space beside her... strong arms drew her close to a warm trembling body... the stranger within her protested... vainly.

* * *

The faint flush of the morning found them driving out of New York. The city was just beginning to stir from its deep slumbers, preparing to doff the velvety black robes of night and don in their stead the brighter one of pale violet shot with gold threads of the rising sun. An occasional party of late revellers in evening clothes hailed taxis that came to screaming stops. In vivid contrast were the plodding laborers in their shabby clothes, dinner pails in hand as they hurried homeward from all-night shifts. A milk truck rumbled by, closely followed by a larger vehicle loaded with fruits and vegetables bound for one of the many restaurants. A stray dog, bedraggled and dirty, nosed about in some refuse. A human derelict charted a weaving course along the pavement. Broadway was beginning to take on a busier air. Everywhere were signs of the preparations necessary for the new day.

Soon the waking city and its activities lay far behind them. As they drove along the highway, Philip thought he had never before been so perfectly at peace with the world, for beside him sat the lovely creature who was so necessary to his life if it was to know complete fulfillment.

Sheila, on the contrary, tried in vain to solve the riddle of her emotions. Was this love, and if so, why did it leave one feeling so strangely unmoved, so apart from it, as if one were standing aside and looking on, but in reality not a portion of it? Why did it repulse one?

Philip was precious to her, so gentle and tender in his love for her; yet why did the thought persist that it was not herself who lay in his arms the night past but a stranger— a woman she did not know? Who was this being inside her who could not find completeness? What were her desires, her unspoken longings? Why must she grope blindly for the light that would awaken her soul? Where was that light? What was it?

* * *

The bright smile of the sun was beginning to fade into the heart of the Adirondacks when Sheila and Philip arrived at Cliff Lodge. The rambling old log inn stood on a rocky bluff overlooking a deep, narrow lake whose placid surface was at the moment tinged with the reds and gold of the sunset. On either side the water was abruptly bounded by the lofty precipices of two majestic mountains on whose jagged sides grew rich dark green pines. Already the air was beginning to chill; the cold advance guard of nightfall was gathering its forces and closing in upon the surrounding country.

In an easterly direction a small village was visible, its miniature buildings looking oddly dwarfed beside the tall peaks against whose ragged slopes they clustered.

Philip stopped the car before the entrance of the Lodge. Sheila sprang out lightly. Her eyes took in the beauty of the scene. "It's heavenly, Phil; I've never seen a place so quiet and peaceful. It's like seeing a lovely oil painting come to life—it's exquisite!"

Philip smiled happily. "I hoped you'd like it. As I told you, this is a favorite spot of mine. Jerry Lang, a boy I worked with for two seasons, and I used to come up every chance we got for trout fishing."

Sheila's face radiated the thrill she felt at being away from the rush and crowds of New York. Then quite suddenly her mind reverted back to the night past. What a pity, she mused, that they could not be just pals, comrades on an adventurous lark, without.... Quickly she forced the hateful memories into the background. She would be happy somehow despite the voice within her that told her repeatedly that all this was not intended to be her life. She must fight that voice— she owed it to Phil to do so.

The large room which the jovial proprietor assigned to them was at the front of the house, overlooking the lake. He had been profuse in his congratulations to Philip and in his praises of his bride. No, there weren't any other guests, he told them. The last party of fishermen had left the previous day—they would be quite alone. He had winked good-naturedly at Philip.

After a filling meal of wholesome home-cooked food they walked out onto the wide porch which extended the full length of Cliff Lodge. Stretched out in comfortable chairs they smoked and talked of their plans for the morrow. It was decided they would walk and Philip would take his rod and reel along in case the urge to cast in one of the many streams should present itself.

Wearied at last by the drive and the soothing air, they rose. Philip's arm stole about Sheila's shoulders as they walked to the door.

"Bed time for you, sleepy head—you're almost asleep now, and in another minute I shall have to carry you upstairs."

"I am a little tired, dear," Sheila agreed. "I didn't realize it before, though; it's been so pleasant out here."

Again the thoughts of the night and its possible happenings loomed before her. Philip's next words reassured her:

"You're going to sleep, young lady." Then—"Even though I would like to keep you awake again for hours telling you how much I love you."

The burden of fear lifted, her mind grew easier as together they climbed the stairs to their room.

* * *

Morning: wispy shreds of mist capping the trees sombre against the early morning sky.

Sheila awoke refreshed by a sound sleep. From the bath came sounds of splashing water and Philip's happy voice humming a popular melody. She stretched luxuriously beneath the cool white sheets and fleecy woolen blankets. The pangs of appetite asserted themselves; reluctantly she threw back the covers and rose to her feet, to dress and answer their urging call. Philip's inquiring voice reached her ears:

"Awake, darling?"

"Yes, dear—I'm up," Sheila called from her place by the window where she had been lost in the wonders of the colorful scenery.

"Okay—coming right out. We'll eat and then get started. I've a million things to show you."

Breakfast over; they left the inn to follow one of the paths leading into the hills. The sun was shining brightly from an unclouded sky. How delicious the crisp morning air; how awe-inspiring the mountains and frowning cliffs not far distant.

Philip, walking briskly along beside Sheila, lunch basket and fishing tackle in hand, talked merrily of past visits at the Lodge, voicing envy of the fortunate ones who could come there and stay, unmindful of business.

Sheila listened to the glowing accounts of other visits and responded with enthusiasm when Philip singled out some spot especially dear in his memories.

On they walked, the ascent so gradual as not to tire them. Tiny mountain streams insinuated their way through ravines which must have been riven by the mighty forces of long-forgotten glaciers, their crystal waters tumbling downward over rocky beds. An occasional wary trout, silvery in the sun, leaping in the eddies of the stream, offered sport to the carefree man as they trudged upward.

The sun was high in the heavens when they stopped at last for lunch. A boulder on which clung tufts of lichens served as their table. Gnarled old balsams, the very embodiment of sturdiness and stability, screened the spot from the glare of the noonday sun. Sheila busied herself unpacking the basket while Philip went for water from a tiny spring near by. As they sat eating, Sheila's eyes drank in the beauty around her. At last she said:

"You've no idea, Phil, what a thrill I'm getting from all this. You see, this is the first time I've ever really been a part of the woods and mountains. Before they've always been such fleeting things—shall we say... seen for the moment from the windows of trains. I have never really walked in them before."

"Well, now that I know you like it, darling, we'll come here every opportunity we get," Philip promised. "Perhaps when we close we can make it up here for a few days anyway."

"I'd love it! Only, then you must teach me to fish; there must be a great kick to that. Your eyes fairly glittered when they saw that trout a while ago."

"Speaking of trout—as soon as we're finished we'll start back. I intend to try for a few in that stream below—looks likely. Who knows? Maybe I'll catch our dinner!"

Sheila finished tucking the red and white cloth over the remnants of their lunch. The basket would be much lighter now: their appetites had been keen.

Philip's hands claimed her own. He drew her close.

"I love you so, Sheila—it's perfect having you here to share all this with me. I wouldn't take anything for it."

The words died out. His mouth came to rest on hers; the unbelievable warmth burned her lips. For a long moment she seemed lost in the heat of it; then—blessed freedom.

At last, the sheltered stream skirted by a belt of tall graceful trees. Sheila sank to the ground somewhat weary from the downward journey. They had walked more rapidly in order to spend more time snaring the crafty denizens of the clear blue waters. The soft carpet of moss made an ideal couch upon which to rest while Philip skillfully assembled his fishing rod. Ready, he started down to the water's edge, followed by Sheila. Soon the singing line broke the stillness as Philip deftly cast into the quiet waters. Sheila watched, fascinated. The gaily colored lure disappeared—a hungry trout had hit it. The line tightened. The reel hummed merrily as Philip re-wound the silken cord—the shimmering body of a mountain trout broke the water. Philip swung the line and its prize behind the rock on which he was standing and onto the grassy shore. Sheila's eyes danced with excitement as Philip removed the fish.

"He's a good sized fellow," he remarked with satisfaction. "A couple more like him and we'll have enough for our dinner. We'll get them cooked at the Lodge."

"Grand!" from Sheila. "Only I think I should be made to catch my share if I'm to eat."

Philip laughed at Sheila's interest. "It's a bargain. The next strike I get, you pull him in."

Shortly the line cutting through the water announced the capture of another speckled beauty. Sheila's eager fingers grasped the handle of the reel and turned it feverishly.

"Better let me land him, darling," Phil suggested as the line shortened.

Sheila relinquished her hold while Philip's experienced hands quickly brought their second captive safely to rest beside the first.

In an hour's time they once again resumed their path homeward; a string of glistening trout hung from Philip's hand. Delightfully tired, they reached the inn a short while before sundown.

The day's excursion had been a most gratifying one to Sheila. The comradeship attending it had brought to mind the days when together they had knocked about New York—pals —nothing more. Snooping about in odd corners of the city, lunching together or seeing the latest movies. Why hadn't she been born a man, she asked herself, so her pleasant and satisfying relationship with Philip might have continued on throughout their lives? Why instead must she be faced with the problem of submission? Why must she go on day after day creating the illusion of giving all of herself? Would the time ever come when, awakened at last, she would know the full meaning of love? If so, when? Who would it be that would rouse her sleeping senses? Where?

* * *

Sheila and Philip were seated in one of the large rustic swings on the broad porch. After their evening meal they had gone to sit there to enjoy for the last time the quietude. Tomorrow they would be leaving; early morning would find them speeding back to New York—only tonight remained. Tomorrow their walks into the mountains, their hours spent fishing would be past—thenceforth they would live only in memories.

Philip rose to his feet. "Let's go for a walk, Sheila."

"I'd love to. Tomorrow night, you know, we'll be on the train miles away from here."

It was a glorious autumn night; the sky was clear and shone deep blue in the starlight that was reflected by teeming brilliant stars. The air was pungent with the winey odor of harvest, and somewhere in the distance an owl voiced his mournful cry, which echoed and re-echoed eerily through the trees beyond. With arms clasped about each other they strolled out into the magic night, then stopping, turned their eyes heavenward. A full yellow moon shone, its lambent flame illuminating the broad spaces before them, silhouetting the mountains and trees against the darkly blue sky—dim, hushed aisles of trees, cathedral-like in their lofty stillness, lifting their spires to lose themselves in a starry heaven. Somewhere close by, the lazy little hamlet lay sleeping peacefully beneath its heavenly blanket.

Tired, they turned to go back. Philip was struck by the peculiar luminous quality of Sheila's face there in the half-light. For a fleeting moment she appeared ethereal and truly a part of the night. The folds of her soft gown and wrap fluttered in the fitful autumn breeze, and Philip, looking at her, thought she was as nearly an angel as he would ever see on this earth. She seemed of the world a thing apart. To possess all of her love and her lithe body had been his dream—a dream now realized. There was no hint of the doubt that was slowly to creep into his heart in the weeks to come, no suggestion that he would become aware of possessing only a portion of what he now deemed completely his own.

* * *

LaSalle Street Station, Chicago.

Sheila and Philip made their way through the crowds of arriving and departing passengers to a cab outside. The redcap deposited their luggage, received his tip; the driver turned inquiringly "Where to, sir?"

"The Palmer House," Philip directed. Then to Sheila, "Adele and Marvin are stopping there; I thought it would be nice to be with them."

"They're a real couple," Sheila replied, "and a clever dance team. It's a shame they haven't a better spot in the show and more opportunity to show what they really can do."

"Marvin was telling me in New York that Adele had a marvelous opportunity to be featured but she turned it down —refused to work without him."

Sheila looked thoughtful. "They're so in love, Phil; I don't blame her."

"Yes, but darling, it isn't fair to hold her back—she's deucedly clever." Philip went on seriously, "I wouldn't be selfish enough to let you sacrifice a real chance for me, even if I do love you better than anything in the world."

Sheila laughed. "Well, we won't worry about that now; I may never get the big break."

"Reservations for Mr. and Mrs. Philip Rowan," Philip proudly told the room clerk at the Palmer House a few minutes later.

Upstairs in their room, after refreshing baths, they lounged about until it should be time to go to the theater. General rehearsal was only a few hours away—then the opening that night.

It would seem good, Sheila reflected, to get back into the old routine again. Cliff Lodge had been lovely, but the call to work was strong now.

She lay thinking.

There was so much to be done after rehearsal... so many little things, she reminded herself drowsily... she must not... forget to...

Philip's kiss awakened her. "Better get up, dear—we've just about time to get dressed and make rehearsal." Sheila stretched lazily, then reluctantly rose.

* * *

Back stage at the Apollo preparations were going forward for the performance that evening. The company was already gathered on the stage and in the wings when Sheila and Philip appeared. Gay, friendly greetings for Sheila—firm handclasps for Philip—good natured kidding for both of them —then silence: rehearsal had begun.

Over at last, there still remained the checking of wardrobe for any possible repairs and the business of getting settled in a new dressing room.

Philip finished and departed for the hotel. Sheila rushed about Chicago's busy Loop, pushing her way through the scurrying crowds that thronged State Street, endeavoring to make last-minute purchases of small articles which always seem to become essential at the opening of a show. Finally, at four o'clock she returned to the hotel.

Philip was resting comfortably on the bed reading the advance notices of the show in one of the papers.

As she entered, he rose quickly to his feet, and going to her, took her in his arms. "I've missed you horribly! I thought you would never come back. Did you get everything you needed for tonight?"

"Yes, darling, and I'm exhausted. Just before I left the theater the last time I heard that we had a sell-out for tonight."

"I know—I've been reading the house notices. They claim the advance sale has been tremendous."

The show opened with the theater filled to capacity, with one of the most enthusiastic audiences of the season.

Weeks sped by. Sheila appeared happy with Philip, while at the theater her popularity grew nightly. Yet, notwithstanding the gay, busy rush, away from the footlights she seemed once again to lapse into her old state of yearning and loneliness. The thread that thus far had outwardly conformed to the rest of the pattern was definitely beginning to twist and warp.

It was during the last week of the Chicago engagement that Sheila heard of a new play to be placed in rehearsal in New York that fall. Friends in the company with her stressed the fact that the story, from what they had heard, seemed made for her, and besides, they knew she had always wanted to do a play—something heavier than the frothy musical comedy roles in which she was usually cast, something in which she could use the great emotional work she was capable of doing.

* * *

Philip sat talking earnestly to Sheila at a quiet corner table in a small cafe near the theater.

"But darling, don't you see? This is the big chance you and I have talked about. You should at least interview Nicoli about the role—it's foolish not to. Don't you see, Sheila," Philip argued. "This is a marvelous opportunity for you to do something big—something you've always wanted to do. I simply will not stand for your sacrificing yourself because of me. Think of it, Sheila; you'd be a huge success in a play, and I'd be so proud of you. You must at least try, in fairness to me— I want you to."

"But Phil—" Sheila voiced her protest—"suppose I should be fortunate enough to sign for it. We'd be separated a whole season, and that wouldn't be fair to you."

"Nonsense! I should probably be playing right in New York in something else and the only time we should be separated would be during performances."

Sheila sat thinking. She did so want at least to make an effort to get the part. A play of Nicoli's was the goal a great many actors and actresses set for themselves. Many an unknown had risen to stardom due to her clever lines and brilliant direction. Yes, she decided, she would arrange an appointment as soon as they arrived back in New York. She announced her intentions.

Philip received her decision with a smile of satisfaction.

* * *

Nicoli: a woman outstanding in her place on Broadway; a woman whose plays in previous years had enjoyed tremendous successes and upon whom critics showered praise not only for her ability to write but for the genius with which she directed her pieces. In the annals of the theater she occupied a unique place: there had never before been such a woman. Her writings seemed to sound the very depths of the soul of humanity.

Sheila was nervous about her first meeting with this great personage, and so carefully and painstakingly groomed herself for that hour when she was to see her. Philip thought she had never looked more beautiful, more appealing or more glamorous than when she came into the living room of their suite where he was sitting reading. Smartly gowned in a brown street frock and tight fitting brown hat, her blonde loveliness was almost dazzling. She was almost too perfect to be anything except a beautiful picture. Philip, gazing at her, was more keenly conscious than ever of the magnetism that emanated from her always. Her statuesque figure made her outstanding even in the crowds that thronged Broadway.

Sheila glanced at her watch. "I'm leaving now, Phil—wish me luck!"

"I do, darling, all the luck in the world. I'll be waiting here, so come back as quickly as possible and tell me what happens."

"I will," Sheila promised. The door closed behind her retreating figure.

Her footsteps were light as they rose and fell on the deep carpet of the corridor. Her heart sang as the elevator bore her downward. She—Sheila Case—actually had an appointment with the great Nicoli.

It was almost unbelievable. She recalled her conversation with Nicoli's secretary. No, the part had not been filled. Nicoli would be glad to see her and talk with her. She was already familiar with her work.

One—two—three blocks. Sheila turned into the entrance of the building that housed Nicoli's offices. Up—up the elevator car carried her. The door of the cage closed; the car started its descent.

Sheila stood facing a large glass door. On it she read "Nicoli." She opened her bag and produced a mirror. She studied her reflection in it a moment, gave her hair a final pat or two, then, satisfied, returned the glass to its place. Her hand grasped the doorknob and turned it.

A girl at the switchboard looked up.

"I'm Sheila Case," she told the girl. "I have an appointment with Nicoli." To herself her voice sounded breathless.

The girl turned back to the board. "Miss Case is here to see you. Yes, I'll send her right in. Nicoli will see you now, Miss Case. First door to the left."

Sheila passed through the little gate beside the girl and into the hall beyond. Why was she so nervous? she asked herself. Where was her usual composure? She shook herself slightly, then opened the door marked "Private" and walked in.

Behind a massive glass-topped desk sat a woman whose deep gray eyes at the moment were upon her. "Nicoli, I'm Sheila Case."

The woman's low, vibrant voice when she spoke fascinated Sheila. "Come in, Miss Case—I've been expecting you."

Nicoli motioned her to a chair before her desk. Sheila seated, she continued:

"I believe it was about the part in The Woman Alone that you wanted to see me, was it not?"

Sheila's eyes met those of the woman before her. "Yes, it was. Your secretary said you hadn't signed anyone yet. I was hoping you would give me a chance to read it for you."

Sheila trembled under the direct scrutiny of Nicoli's intent gaze. Why did she feel so shy? Why did her heart pound so? Why couldn't she say all of the things she had planned to say?

"I am already familiar with your work, Miss Case, and from what I've seen of it, you shouldn't have any great difficulty with the part. Then too, you're the type I had in mind."

"I'm so glad!" Sheila exclaimed happily. "You see, I've always wanted to do something heavier than musical shows— and I've always hoped that some day I could work under a really great director, the kind that would make a girl do things she didn't know she was capable of doing—the kind... you are."

Sheila's eyes spoke of the wealth of admiration she had for this woman whose genius had placed her in the enviable position she occupied. They took in the details of Nicoli's appearance: strong yet beautifully cut features; well shaped head and short dark hair with its sprinkling of silver; then her gray eyes and their depth. What was behind them? Sheila was surprised to find herself wondering and really wanting to know.

Her speculations were brought up short by Nicoli's question: "You're married, Miss Case, are you not?"

Sheila nodded an affirmative. Nicoli went on.

"I merely spoke of it because my cast is filled with the exception of the lead—I couldn't use a team."

Sheila replied quickly, "We've agreed to work singly this season if you should decide on me for the part."

"That's splendid," Nicoli announced abruptly, "because I have decided—I do want you. Now then, let's get together on salary."

After a short discussion, Sheila prepared to leave. It had been agreed that she was to come the following day to sign her contract.

Reluctantly she bade Nicoli goodbye. The desire to remain and engage her in conversation filled her brain. What was it that made her feel as if she had known Nicoli always? Why in such a brief period did she feel so close to her? What was it in her voice that made her heart leap when she spoke?

During the short walk to the hotel thoughts of Nicoli persisted—disturbing thoughts.

Over and over she felt the urge to go back and talk to her again, about what?... it didn't seem to matter.

* * *

Philip noted the time on his wrist, then resumed his reading. Sheila would be along shortly, no doubt. Perhaps the steps in the hall now were hers. The door opened and Sheila entered, her face flushed with the exciting news she brought.

"Phil, I have it! The part, I mean. Nicoli said I am just the type—I'm signing the contract tomorrow!"

"Darling!" Philip grasped Sheila's hands. "I knew you would! Come here—sit down and tell me what happened."

Sheila tossed her small hat on a table and curled herself up on the sofa. Philip joined her.

"Well, first of all—I was simply panic-stricken when I walked into her office. You know, Phil, I wanted the part so badly and there are so many leading women in New York that she might know better."

"That's true," Philip agreed; "but they aren't my Sheila. I know what you can do."

As he spoke he studied the bright face before him. Yes, his first impression had been correct: there was a new radiance in her eyes. She was scintillating—brilliant—alive.

"When do you start rehearsals?" he queried.

"Day after tomorrow, Nicoli said. The rest of the cast has already been selected."

"Good! Now tell me, how did you like Nicoli?"

"Phil, beyond a doubt she's the most vital person I've ever met." Sheila laughed nervously. "She made me feel like a child—ready and willing to do her bidding. I'm certain I'll do my best work under her direction. I can't help doing it— she's so dynamic."

"I'm so glad you liked her, dear; it will make such a difference. Then too, she is a clever director and her shows are always successes."

Sheila's thoughts went back to Nicoli's eyes—her voice—the depth she had felt in her—the strange tug at her own senses.

"They would have to be good," she told Philip. "They couldn't be otherwise, coming from her. I've never encountered such depth in anyone; she must have a fathomless soul hidden beneath her veneer of abruptness. Personally, I don't see how anything could fail with her mind for its origin."

Throughout Sheila's long recital, Philip looked steadily at the enthusiastic woman before him. At last something had raised her out of her listlessness and given her a real interest. It was good to see her so alive after the weeks past when he had tried vainly to solve the enigma of her melancholy moods.

* * *

Work on the play commenced. Sheila's eyes flashed with enthusiasm as she worked untiringly at the theater, and spent hours at the hotel going over the scenes and studying. Philip sensed a change in her, the presence of something intangible that he was at a complete loss to explain, though he racked his worried brain for the solution. At night when he held her in his arms telling her over and over of his love and passionate longing for her, he seemed ever aware of a tautness in her warm body as it lay close to his own. It was maddening to accept her surrender when always he sensed that he possessed only a part of the emotion she was capable of displaying. What could awaken this wealth of hidden passion? What manner of love did her soul cry for?

As days sped by, Philip was more and more in darkness. Sheila was plainly beginning to strain against the vows which held her to him. Each day lengthened the distance between them, which he began to fear he could never span. They had changed their suite so that Sheila might be alone in the privacy of her own room to better concentrate on the part which seemed to be her whole existence.

After several weeks of this enforced separation, Philip took her into his arms and implored her to remain with him that night. But in the ebony blackness of the room he knew that the woman he held in his arms was only a part of the lovely wife he so adored. The tenseness that so often before he had sensed was still there, but a new element was manifesting itself. Sheila seemed to be actively repelling his caresses, endeavoring to keep him from possessing even a part of her. Truly this was a new Sheila... a Sheila he was at a complete loss to understand.

Finally he held Sheila in his arms with her head pillowed on his shoulder while she slept, unaware that his tortured mind kept him awake until the first gray streaks of dawn were visible through the heavy curtains as they hung slightly parted. His brain still groped helplessly about, trying to find the reason for Sheila's indifference. Why did he feel the presence of something he could not name? What was the power at work?

The answer came quickly. After several attempts to regain the woman he had known, his harassed mind had failed to find a solution to his problem, and he had simply pleaded with her to give herself to him. It was on this night that Sheila told him that never again could she submit to his desires.

She had said simply and in almost a child-like manner, "Philip, I'm sorry, genuinely sorry to hurt you—but our lives together must come to an end—we can't go on—my life and my love belong to"—she had hesitated over the name—"Nicoli. In her I have found what I know now I have been looking for, without realizing what it was that I really wanted."

Philip had his answer—an answer of which he would never have dreamed. But suddenly with searing clarity he saw that Sheila was one of the twisted threads of life which had finally found another like unto itself, and that together the two would form their part of the design of Life.

Philip Rowan went away, leaving Sheila to her love and life—a life that was to be tossed about in a seething sea of emotion until finally he should learn of her death, and later hear the last words committing her to eternal peace.

All that he had loved lay in that chapel beyond the reach of human thoughts. The body whose nearness had meant everything to him was destined shortly to become a mere bit of ashes. Ashes—not unlike those into which his dreams and hopes had burned years before. Ashes—cold, gray, dusty ashes —giving no hint of the beauty that once was theirs.

PART TWO

Nicoli

Nicoli raised tear dimmed eyes—eyes that spoke of sorrow deep as the sea, as they gazed hopelessly on the form of the woman lying so quiescent in death.

Her mind sped back to the day when she first met Sheila Case and started to walk with her along the path that was to extend for nine years—a road traveled daily by the few chosen by God to wander forever. Nomadic souls, finding no rest, but ever pressing forward, searching for that understanding which the world can never give them.

* * *

Nicoli sat writing at her desk in the perfectly appointed room that was her private office. She was deeply engrossed in plans for her latest play, The Woman Alone. For days she had been busy interviewing performers, hiring and rejecting until at last her cast was complete with the exception of a leading woman. Somehow she had not been able thus far to find the exact type she had in mind, despite the number whom the agents had sent to her and the many who had come independent of representatives.

The phone on her desk tingled. Her hand reached out and grasped it. "All right," her voice sounded low and crisp to the girl on the other end.

"Miss Case is here to see you," she told Nicoli.

"I'll see her at once," Nicoli informed her. "Send her in."

She replaced the phone and sat waiting. Sheila Case, she mused. She recalled the young actress clearly; she had noted her work carefully at the time and decided that the girl's talents were wasted in the light, frivolous shows in which she had appeared. There had been an indefinable something that had kept the memory of her alive. Yes, Nicoli decided, she did have a definite appeal—something that would find its rightful place in drama.

The door opened, causing her to lift her eyes to see framed in the doorway the actress she had almost made up her mind was the one she needed and wanted. A gloriously rich voice came to her ears. How well she recalled the haunting tones of that voice.

"Nicoli... I'm Sheila Case."

Nicoli forced herself to speak—to break the train of thought that had suddenly risen from out of the past.

"Oh, yes, Miss Case. Come in. I've been expecting you." She motioned Sheila to her side.

With characteristic grace Sheila dropped into the chair, sighing softly. Nicoli studied her keenly as they talked: about the new play—Sheila's ambitions and her desire to work with a truly great director—her desire to work for her.

Nicoli's mind told her that here was no ordinary woman, but one born to sway people's hearts as she swayed their emotions in the theater. The magnetism of this lovely being gripped Nicoli, making her remember the years she had fought to keep in check the side of her nature that she was determined to control—to sublimate—forcing herself to lead a loveless existence that she might adhere to a principle. She would need that principle now as never before, because she knew that in Sheila was a woman whose lightest touch could forever destroy her staunchest resolutions.

Her eyes watched Sheila's hands as she held them on the glistening top of the desk—long, slim, tapering fingers that held her eyes, refusing to release them—refusing to allow her brain to function with any degree of sanity—causing her in imagination to see them clasped tightly about her neck or wandering lightly through her hair...

Nicoli attempted to force her thoughts into a sane channel. Somehow she must conquer the almost irresistible desire to feel the caressing touch of those lovely hands. She must keep her own restless ones from reaching out to touch them. She must mask the turmoil in her soul with a veil of abruptness— Sheila must not be allowed to guess her feelings. Again her eyes were drawn to the alluring figure of Sheila.

Her throat seemed dry—parched. Why... why couldn't she tear from her mind the urge to break her self-imposed bonds? Why couldn't she force out of her mind the desire to fold Sheila's young body close to her own? It was utter madness to torture herself so. Somewhere in her chaotic mind she must find the strength she so sorely needed.

Perhaps it would be best, she told herself, not to assign the role to her. How could she hope to stand the weeks of anguish which close proximity to Sheila would cause her?

Yet how to let her go, wanting her so... no, she couldn't do that. She must not lose her, no matter what the price.

Sheila's lovely face brightened when Nicoli gave her decision. There followed a discussion of the terms of the contract. Quickly they reached an agreement and Nicoli, once more her business-like self, said:

"If you'll drop in tomorrow afternoon, my secretary will have the contracts ready for your signature."

For a long time after Sheila departed Nicoli sat thinking. What would be the outcome of their close association in the theater? She recalled anew her first impression of Sheila more than a year ago when she had witnessed a performance she had given. Even then the memory of her face and appealing voice had lingered for days. With difficulty she had finally dismissed it from her mind. What would happen now when suddenly she seemed to have lost the desire to forget?

* * *

Weeks of work on the new play followed. For the first time, Nicoli was working with a divided mind; working in daily contact with the woman who was slowly consuming her every thought, becoming more and more of her being... days when in the theater she encountered more and more difficulty in controlling her once amenable mind... forcing herself to work, yet ever conscious of her growing love for Sheila... telling herself that it could not be, that Sheila belonged to Philip Rowan, and even were that not true, she probably would not understand Nicoli's feelings toward her... warning herself that she must forever force the strange longings out of her heart and out of her life... telling herself that she must forget Sheila Case except as a puppet to be moved about the stage under her direction... that for her she must never be anything else but clay to be molded by her skillful hands into the character she wished portrayed. Sheila must cease to be a woman, a warm, breathing, lovely woman whom she, Nicoli, had grown to want so madly. Never again must she allow the promise of her lips to fan the flames of desire within her, driving out all reason.

Then there were nights when Nicoli would drive for miles alone, her short hair blowing in the night wind as she drove aimlessly on—or, stopping along the road, she looked heavenward and asked God why in His otherwise perfect universe He had created women such as herself, with the impulses and desires of men and the bodies of women. Certainly this was one of Fate's crudest jokes: to love so completely that which the world denied her. Why should it be irreconcilably wrong for her to adore Sheila? Surely no man living could love her more tenderly or hold her more sacred.

Unceasingly Nicoli fought this battle—until the day came when in directing she found it necessary to demonstrate a piece of technique to the actor playing opposite Sheila. She walked over to Sheila, and, trying desperately to master her emotions, held out her arms, folded her close, and kissed her. For a moment her senses reeled as she felt the warmth of Sheila's mouth and the unbelievable trembling of her body. Was her mind indeed running rampant, or had Sheila's kiss been a response to the wild longings within herself?

Somehow Nicoli finished the rehearsal and dismissed the cast. She then gathered her manuscript and notes together and walked over to where Sheila stood putting last minute touches to her make-up before leaving the theater.

"Tired, Sheila?" she asked in a voice that seemed oddly unlike her own.

"A little, Nicoli; but I think I'll get over it as soon as I get out in the air."

"You've a right to be fatigued. We worked an unusually long time today. I thought I never would make Mr. Sands understand what I wanted in that scene with you in the second act."

At the mention of the scene wherein Nicoli had taken her in her arms and kissed her, Sheila's cheeks flushed. Had Nicoli noticed the trembling of her body, of her lips against her own? Had she guessed the presence of the unusual feeling that had swept her soul? Had she guessed that in that moment in her arms she had seen revealed to her wondering brain the reason for her strange longings? Had Nicoli tried to tell her in that kiss what she felt for her in her own heart?

Sheila made an effort to answer calmly. "I think he understands the piece of business now, Nicoli. Tell me, aside from that, how did you like the way rehearsal went?"

"Splendid—the whole thing is shaping up nicely," Nicoli told her. "I see no reason why we can't open on the date I set originally."

Her cosmetics replaced in her bag, Sheila prepared to leave.

"I'll see you at ten in the morning, Nicoli. You said ten, did you not?"

"Yes. I thought we'd start an hour earlier, so I wouldn't keep the cast so late again."

Nicoli hesitated. Should she ask Sheila the question that persisted in presenting itself? Yes, she would, she decided— she must.

"By the way, Sheila—I intended to drive out a way to a place I know for dinner. I'd love to have you go with me—unless of course you have to get back to the hotel."

Sheila spoke up quickly. "Not at all. I haven't a thing planned and I'd like very much to go."

A voice within Nicoli warned her. She thrust the warning aside.

"That's fine; then we'll walk over and get my car. I always store it near the theater—only a block or so. Shall we go?"

* * *

Life teeming with pleasures, sorrows, and mistakes lay all about them as they drove away in the gathering dusk. Lights were beginning to flash on over the city. One by one they came on, changing from drab pieces of glass to scintillating forms that seemed almost alive—like souls being awakened into the glorious realization of living. The last bit of daylight gave way to their glow and the city lay behind them bathed in light, flooded with the warmth and brilliance of thousands of gleaming globes.

The steady stream of automobiles moved slowly onward; pedestrians hurried homeward, and Life and Fate moved relentlessly forward.

The broad ribbon of open road ran through the heart of nature, speaking softly of the peace she held for tired mortals —yet Nicoli's heart was not attuned to that peace.

Neither spoke much in words, but Nicoli sensed the tenseness of the air about them that seemed to be charged with something dynamic... charged with words which were struggling tempestuously for expression, with passions which were wailing for escape. Sheila reclined apparently relaxed in the cushions of the car, very much as a child who, worn out from play, sinks comfortably into a welcoming chair—there was no outward sign of the inward chaos she felt.

They stopped for dinner along the road at a charming, restful inn surrounded by large old trees. Low on the horizon rode a mellow autumn moon and through the trees just over the rambling roofs hung the evening star, glinting clear and radiant, reminding Nicoli in its pure fire of the purity which was Sheila. Forever after, as she saw the evening star, she was to remember with exquisite clarity the first moon and star-shine she had shared with Sheila.

During dinner a stringed orchestra played softly, its romantic melodies designed to warm the hearts of its listeners. To Nicoli as she listened to the plaintive strains came a frantic desire to flee away from the dreamy tender eyes of Sheila and the music that threatened to burst the floodgates of her soul. Still, when they left the inn, she wanted sorely to suggest riding on into the night. Then the side of her that for so many years she had compelled to dominate asserted itself and she turned the car toward the city—driving rapidly, seldom speaking on the homeward journey, fearing that something in Sheila's voice would cause her to abandon her resolutions. Arriving in town, she drove Sheila home, not trusting herself to linger and talk, but with almost feverish haste speeding away from her.

In her mind, as she drove blindly on, she recalled Sheila's expression while talking with her that evening: was she wrong, or had her eyes held a new light, a new look of tenderness? The desire to drive back and ask Sheila to come with her—anywhere—was consuming.

The perfume of this precious person still lingered in her senses, causing her heart to beat madly, her blood to pound in her temples as if seeking an outlet...

Another day of the struggle within Nicoli had come to a close. Slowly but surely Sheila had stolen into her daily life until Nicoli could not visualize life without her. The Weaver in weaving had somehow caught their threads together and twisted them into a single strand.

* * *

The next day found Sheila nervous and unable to concentrate at the rehearsal until Nicoli, in desperation, after several attempts to straighten her out, called her aside and quietly said: "I think it would be a good idea, Sheila, to take these scenes tonight and get them set in your mind before tomorrow. I can't take the time to work on them now. We can come here, or—" she hesitated—"better still, we can work at my apartment; it will be more comfortable there."

"Yes, I think so too," Sheila replied. "I'll be glad to get the extra time in—I do want to get the right interpretation. I don't know what possesses me today, Nicoli—I seem to have gone haywire for some reason or other. I'll try not to cause you any more trouble... I'm sorry."

Nicoli smiled at the earnest face. "No trouble at all. Will eight o'clock suit you?"

"Any time is convenient; you see, Philip went out of town today, so I shall be perfectly free to work as late as we may want to. By the way, Nicoli, where is your apartment?"

"I'm at the Sheridan-Plaza, on Riverside Drive." Nicoli told her. "Apartment 11-A. I'll expect you, then, around eight."

* * *

Eight o'clock: Sheila emerged from the elevator on the eleventh floor. "First door to your right," the cheery voice of the elevator boy informed her.

The door of 11-A opened as she approached it. Nicoli greeted her: "I heard the elevator and thought perhaps it was you. Come in."

Broadly spacious rooms greeted Sheila's eyes as she stepped, into the apartment. Rooms splashed with light. The floors were wax-like, and upon their gleaming surface stood decisive, virile, cleanly-angled furniture. Everywhere was the touch of Nicoli's own inimitable style, truly a fit setting for her dynamic self.

"Nicoli, it's lovely," exclaimed Sheila, looking about. "It is just the sort of place one would expect you to have. It even looks like you. I believe I should have known instantly that you lived in it."

"I've lived here among these things a good many years, Sheila; they are like old friends—" then in a voice tinged with sadness, "they are my only close companions." Throwing off the fleeting mood, she continued, "But here, young woman—we have work to do, and a lot of it, too. We'd best get started."

As they sat on a huge divan under the glow of a lovely old lamp, Sheila studied the woman who sat so earnestly, manuscript in hand, discussing the scenes. Nicoli was wearing a smartly tailored robe which suited her type perfectly, and under the mellow light her closely cropped hair looked peculiarly beautiful with its scattered sprinkling of silver.

It was difficult for Nicoli to keep her eyes on the papers before her and as the evening wore on, they strayed more and more often to Sheila's lovely face, until Nicoli felt certain that she too must feel the magnetism in the air about them. Surely she must sense the presence of the force that seemed to be drawing them together, urging them into each other's arms.

The resonant voice of Sheila repeating the lines of the play began to beat rhythmically in Nicoli's brain... over and over... over and over... until her blood seemed to be coursing through her veins attuned to that same strange rhythm. Her emotions eddied in a mad whirlpool, striving to free themselves from the brain that impeded them—until at last they burst their bounds and she took Sheila into her arms. Her lips sought Sheila's, loosening the wealth of passion she had fought so long to conquer. Her exploring, fingers wandered over the flame-enkindling curves of the lovely body... her warm mouth moved hungrily downward over the firm young throat and on to the smoothness of the velvetlike skin of Sheila's breast. Her voice was low and husky when she spoke:

"I love you so, Sheila," she whispered hoarsely. "I've tried so hard not to, but I do. You've been in my thoughts every moment since that first day—I haven't been able to think of anything else—I've wanted you so."

Sheila's arms tightened about Nicoli. "I've wanted you too, darling—I've wanted you to love me as I love you—I've wanted you to kiss me and hold me close to you forever."

Nicoli's eager mouth claimed Sheila's feverish one. Their souls merged into one, and all of the desire and longing of the weeks past had its fulfillment at that moment.

Later, wrapped in Nicoli's close embrace in the silken blackness of her bedroom, Sheila found a love that was forever to set her apart from the world and bind her always to that world of shadow and shade whence there is no escape.

In the darkness her restlessness and loneliness were silently spirited away, her search came to an end, and the dense fog of longing and yearning that had hung over her being lifted and vanished in a vaporous mist before the brilliant sun of revelation.

Peace and calm came at length to pour oil on the passion-tossed waters of her soul. Sleep descended to carry her away to a land of heavenly dreams—dreams of Nicoli's love... her arms... her long, fervent kisses.

* * *

Nicoli stirred slightly, her hand instinctively reaching out to touch Sheila. She awakened with a start at finding herself alone, and sitting up quickly, she called "Darling!" Her voice sounded through the empty rooms. Plainly Sheila was gone.

Why did she leave? Nicoli asked herself. Then glancing at the disheveled pillow beside her, she saw a note. What does it mean? she pondered, as she ripped it open, afraid to read it lest it tell her that Sheila had torn herself from the spell that had bound them so closely. Her eyes scanned its contents:

"Nicoli, darling,

"How can I tell you what last night meant to me? It is as though I had always known your love. I have been seeking so long the thing you have given me—striving vainly to solve the riddle of my being-—wondering, ever wondering what it was that made of me an outcast from the lives of others.

"When I return to you I shall have broken all ties that might have kept me from being wholly your own.

Sheila."

* * *

Nicoli recalled the ensuing weeks. They had taken up their lives together, there in her apartment. The very atmosphere of it had taken on a new meaning: everything seemed to have become permeated by Sheila's influence; her presence could be felt even during her absence at the theater when Nicoli sat reading or writing along in their rooms. These had been utterly happy days for them, filled to overflowing with their newly found contentment. The Woman Alone had opened, and critics and showmen had pronounced it the greatest thing Nicoli had ever done. They had been lavish in their praise of Sheila Case, saying there was a new life and fire to her work that raised it above all past performances. The glamour that had always been hers was enhanced by the flame that burned so brightly within her. A new dramatic star had risen in the realm of the theater and everywhere the public acclaimed Sheila Case.

Weeks and months passed and still the play went on, until the capacity attendance was the talk of the entire show world and the phenomenal success had become almost a legend on Broadway. Sheila's every move was recorded in the papers, depriving her of all privacy. Everywhere she and Nicoli went they were immediately surrounded by admirers anxious for a glimpse of the star of the moment.

They had been happy—supremely so—living each day for each other, each night for the love that was theirs; thanking God that He had brought them together, praying Him ever to keep them so; vowing never to part until death should take one from the other. Yet, wrapped in each other's arms they had been fearful of their sublime happiness lest something destroy it and send them back to the dark solitude each had known.

* * *

"When will you have to leave?" Sheila inquired anxiously as they sat in Nicoli's office.

Nicoli's eyes dropped again to the cablegram she held in her hands.

"As soon as I can get a boat. Vance says it's urgent that I get there before the opening."

"That isn't but two weeks off, is it?"

Nicoli glanced at the calendar on her desk. "Just exactly two weeks. I can't imagine what the difficulty is—I thought until this arrived that the show was all set."

"Well, it seems to me that as familiar as Vance is with the script he should be able to get the show in shape to open without you." Sheila's voice was petulant.

"You're absolutely correct, darling," Nicoli agreed. "If I had known that he couldn't handle it himself, I never would have allowed him to persuade me to produce a number two show."

"Still, from a financial standpoint, you would have been foolish not to, but—" Sheila's hand reached out to Nicoli's— "this separation is going to be dreadful. I don't know what I shall do without you!"

Nicoli's strong fingers gripped Sheila's slender ones. "It is going to be beastly, my darling, but it's too late now to do anything about it—I'll just have to go."

Sheila sighed resignedly. "Well—there's one thing about it; with you over there, the first night is bound to be a success."

"Let's hope so! I'd hate to leave you only to see a failure."

The telephone on Nicoli's desk rang. "Yes?"

"You can sail tomorrow night," her secretary's voice informed her. "Shall I make reservations?"

"That's fine," Nicoli replied in her usual clear decisive manner. "Go ahead and make them."

She replaced the telephone. "That's that! I won't need much time to pack. I'll leave the office early tomorrow and throw a few things into some bags. I shan't need many clothes."

"I'm so glad—I don't believe I could stand to see many of your things leave the apartment." Sheila's words were tinged with the anguish she felt at losing her beloved Nicoli for even so brief a period.

* * *

In the speeding taxicab on the way to the docks Sheila sat close to Nicoli, her arm linked through hers.

"I can't bear to let you go," she whispered. "I don't see how I can stand having you away from me."

Nicoli's arm slipped about her waist, pressing her closer. "There isn't anything we can do—I have to go—but I'll be thinking of you and loving you every moment of the time. Nothing can keep me from doing that."

"Promise me you'll cable me the minute you arrive," Sheila pleaded. "I have to know you're safe. I have to have some word from you."

"I promise, darling..."

Conversation was brought up short by their arrival at the docks. Pier 47 was crowded and a motley throng wended its way up the gangplank and onto the decks of the departing liner. Messenger boys laden with flowers and elaborately packed bon voyage baskets hurried about seeking their respective destinations. Merry groups in faultless evening attire talked and laughed gaily as they pressed through the crowd, eager to find departing friends with whom to share a farewell drink or two. A woman recognized Sheila and turned excitedly to inform her companions, "That's Sheila Case, the actress!" Immediately Sheila's receding figure drew all their eyes as she and Nicoli followed a steward to Nicoli's cabin.

Comfortably settled there, they spent the remaining minutes talking, each endeavoring to direct the conversation away from Nicoli's impending departure.

In just a few moments the luxurious liner, bearing her human cargo, would slowly pull away from the shore and begin her long journey across the great body of water, only to glide gracefully up to another pier and its noise and confusion.

The ship's clock ticked away the fleeting time.

"All ashore that's going ashore." The words drifted into Nicoli's stateroom, followed by the deep musical tones of the gong.

Sheila rose unwillingly from her position on the lounge. Bravely she strove to keep her voice cheerful. "I must go, or I'm afraid they will be taking me along." She made a valiant attempt to smile.

Nicoli gathered her into her arms. "I wish they would, darling! I don't know what I'll do without you."

Sheila's hands caressed Nicoli's face. "I love you so, my darling." Her mouth came to rest on Nicoli's. Her kiss was long and fervent. Reluctantly she released her and with an uncertain voice bid her a hasty good-bye, then hurried from the stateroom—along the crowded deck—down the gangplank —her only bridge between supreme happiness and abject loneliness. With eyes blinded by tears she watched the narrow strip of water widen relentlessly between the shore and the huge white glistening ship. With an aching void where her heart had been she turned away... her Nicoli was gone.

* * *

The following days Sheila felt horribly alone. Alone in a city where so many would gladly have given anything to share even a moment with her. But people meant nothing; their applause left her strangely untouched, for no matter how appreciative her audience was, when the final curtain fell and the noise and confusion of the theater were left behind, all that remained for her were four walls and her utter loneliness.

"How empty fame is, after all," Sheila thought. "How little it is worth compared to the precious moments it costs in separation."

Three weeks. Nicoli's long awaited cable announcing her departure for home came at last. Hours dragged by—hideously slow hours—as Sheila in her mind followed the steamer mile after mile across the expanse of water. Then the gala day... Nicoli, her Nicoli, was coming. Sheila sang gaily as she dressed to go to meet her. Long before the steamer slipped into its berth she stood waiting. Finally it arrived, and Sheila pressed forward through the crowd to the gates.

At last her eager gaze caught sight of the familiar figure coming down the gangplank. "Nicoli! Nicoli!"

* * *

During the drive home Sheila talked excitedly, loosening a flurry of questions, allowing no time for answers. "Did you have a pleasant crossing? Any interesting people on board? And repeatedly the query, "Did you miss me? Are you glad to be back?"

* * *

Evening... the theater again... yet how different the familiar surroundings appeared, with Nicoli home once more.

Sheila was in a gay happy mood as she went about the task of applying her make-up: Nicoli, her Nicoli, would be watching her performance tonight. The face reflected in her mirror was aglow with the excitement she felt at once again having Nicoli close to her.

No longer would the nights seem eons long—what had appeared an eternity of solitude had somehow miraculously ended. The untold misery of the hours spent out of the arms of her beloved was fading from her memory. In its stead walked feverish anticipation of the hours to come. Mad, unforgettable hours they would be, when all of life would be forgotten in her worship of Nicoli's nearness. Was it wrong, she asked herself, to love her so intensely, to the absolute exclusion of everything else? Was it wrong to have placed her in her heart almost as an idol in a shrine? Yet how to do otherwise with a love of such intensity and magnitude—a love that was ageless—something that even when they were no longer alive would live on and on, growing more beautiful, more sacred as the centuries passed. How...

On leaden feet the hours of the evening passed. To Sheila the play had never been so long. At last the final curtain descended; curtain calls were over, and she was free to rush to her dressing room. Nicoli was already there when she entered.

"You were at your best tonight, Sheila," she told her with pride, then continued teasingly, "I think I should go away more often if this is the effect my return has upon you."

Sheila laughed happily and went about the details of changing into street clothes. Some few minutes later she walked toward Nicoli, linked her arm through hers and pulled her to her feet.

"Take me home, darling," she said. "I want to be alone with you. It's been so long."

Nicoli's lips brushed her cheek. "Too long, darling," she murmured—"much too long."

* * *

"Even the apartment feels that you're back home, Nicoli—the very chairs have missed you."

"And you?" Nicoli questioned as she lifted Sheila to her feet and walked with her to the sheltering cavern of their favorite divan.

Sheila rumpled Nicoli's springy hair in sheer excess of spirits and answered playfully, "I have missed you a little bit, darling." Then locking her arms around her neck she burst into tears, sobbing piteously, "Don't ever leave me again— promise me! I'm lost when I'm out of your arms—say you won't!"

Nicoli pressed the shaking figure closer. "I shan't ever go away from you again," she promised—"not ever."

Sheila lifted her lovely head, her eyes met the serious, tender ones of the woman whose arms held her; her lips parted. "You're mine, Nicoli, and I need you, more than I can ever tell you. I've been so miserable—" The delicate chin quivered, the full mouth trembled.

"Here—here!" Nicoli's voice took on a mock sternness. "No more of that—I'm here now and here I'm going to stay. Besides, I've brought you something and I am anxious to see if you like it."

Sheila straightened up quickly and inquired with child-like eagerness, "What is it, Nicoli? Where is it?"

Nicoli rose. "I'll get it for you—just a minute." Her straight form with its broad shoulders and slim hips disappeared in the direction of the bedroom. In a moment she returned carrying in her hands an intricately carved jade box which she extended to Sheila.

"Nicoli, it's exquisite!" Sheila cried as she jumped to her feet. "Where did you find it?"

"I ran across it at one of the smaller shops in the Rue St. Honore. I thought it would be a lovely case for your jewelry—just about the right size, don't you think?"

"It's just too beautiful for words, darling—I'll keep it always."

As Nicoli gazed at Sheila's enraptured face she little dreamed that one day her gift would come back to her.

* * *

As time went on they were happier than ever before, blissfully unaware that slowly a mighty force was gathering that would tear their lives from their foundations.

Broadway was beginning to talk. The gaunt ugly spectre of Gossip stalked the brightly lighted street, trailing slimy fingers dipped in the filth of rumor and scandal, leaving a viscous trail in its wake along the path it trod. Its fetid breath seeped into the minds of friends who struggled vainly to deny its presence and into the already corrupted brains of people who were only too willing and anxious to acknowledge its existence there and further its rank progress.

In a short time the habitues of the White Way were divided into two warring camps: those who fought to disclaim the malicious charges and those who offered what they contended was ample proof of their validity. The defensive faction pointed with pride to Nicoli's position, her years of work unsullied by even an atom of scandal, to Sheila's artistry and her exquisite femininity. "Is it not quite natural," they asked, that these two should be close companions? Sheila Case is the finished product of Nicoli's unbounded genius—hers is the love of a great artist for the masterpieces he has created."

"Lies—all lies," jeered the offensive. "Physical attraction—baseness—is the bond that holds them so firmly together. They belong to a group of people who have no acknowledged place and never will have because of the vileness of their natures. What can they know of love—they who do not even know the meaning of the word? Their sort should be stamped from the earth—eradicated completely—so that normal minds would not have to witness their degrading escapades."

So the battle raged, while the insidious gossip gained momentum everywhere. In the night clubs, restaurants and theaters people talked. Actors whispered choice bits; stage hands passed them on to onlookers and they in turn to their friends.

Unsavoury fragments drifted to Sheila's ears. What could she do? What must she do to protect Nicoli? She was sensitive, Sheila told herself, but not nearly so much so as Nicoli. How could she stand idly by and see her lose friends of years standing—see her lose caste among the people who now reverenced her name? See her outstanding independence of mind slip away—see her lose her most valued possession; her self-respect? And at last to see her marked by the world—a failure. How could she bear to know that it was she who had ruined her life—her career—and finally stripped her of everything her years of untiring effort had built up?

When that day should finally come, would her love be compensation enough for the great loss Nicoli would sustain? Could she, Sheila—would she—accept such a sacrifice? If she did, what surcease could she possibly find from the pain that would come when she gazed into Nicoli's deep eyes and saw the hunted look and sorrow hidden there?

Hourly Sheila sought the answers to her questions; hourly one and only one solution came to her weary brain. Always she fought bravely to cloak her fears and mental turmoil with laughter and care-free chatter, yet ever she carried the burden of knowledge that sooner or later she must bow to the tyranny of public opinion and man-made conventions.

Nicoli too sensed the situation and tried desperately to conceal her own misgivings. Was this not the very reason, she asked herself, that for years she had gone on alone, steeling herself against the unusual desires of her heart—starving her inner being of the love that she knew was so essential to its happiness—working hours on end in order to still, through sheer weariness, the pleading cry within her? Had she not always known that she could not bear the onslaught of public opinion? Not against herself—she would not let that matter—but how could she tolerate having people who could not hope to comprehend, make of their love a cheap, tawdry thing? How could she reconcile herself to the coarse references made to that love by persons wholly unsuited by nature to grasp even in the slightest degree its true meaning? They deemed it unnatural, and so it was to them, unnatural—but deeper and sweeter for the very nature of its unnaturalness, and God-given to the few to whom He had given understanding. Yet, notwithstanding her apprehension, Nicoli thanked Him fervently in her dark hours for His heavenly gift and determined anew each day never to relinquish the untold joys and peace of Sheila's love, no matter what the world might demand in payment. She would give willingly to the unseeing masses anything they might demand save Sheila and her love for her. These she would keep forever locked safely away in the innermost recesses of her heart, sheltering them always—protecting them ever.

* * *

Weeks passed with Nicoli and Sheila both trying bravely to hide from each other the disturbing knowledge that had become such a burden. They became more and more retiring. Sheila pleading fatigue and Nicoli devoting the hours away from her office to her writing: neither of them wished to subject themselves to the curious, wondering gaze of people who still strove to meet them.

It was late in May when Nicoli gave the show the two weeks' notice that announced its closing.

In a few weeks most of the legitimate houses along Broadway would be in darkness for the summer months; the warehouses would begin to fill, as wardrobe and scenery were carefully stored away. Theatrical offices would be quiet until August when the call for performers would again be heard. Actors who were affluent at the close of the season would be leaving New York for vacations and much needed rest; others not so fortunate would congregate in the various clubs and on the streets talking of the break that was sure to come when the new season should open, while in the meantime they spent sparingly of the meager savings that were almost certain to have vanished before rehearsals should begin again.

Nicoli and Sheila were both tired after the gruelling months of work, and the closing night found them eager for the rest the following weeks would yield. It would seem a real treat to have every evening free to lounge about their apartment.

It was comfortable, delightfully so, Sheila thought, the first evening she was at liberty to enjoy it. The lights were so soothing, so mellow, compared to the bright searching lights of the theater. Yes, it would be nice to be lazy, if only... Nicoli's words interrupted the disturbing thought.

"I've been thinking, Sheila, that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to rest a few days before we try to make any plans for a vacation. In that way I can finish up at the office and you'll be feeling better to go away."

"That's perfect, darling. I'm too tired now even to think about where I'd like to go." Sheila's voice, usually resonant, sounded hollow. Why must Nicoli speak of their trip together, when her heart was so torn by indecision? Aloud she continued:

"I think I'll shop tomorrow, Nicoli—it's been so long since I've had time for that sort of thing—and then I'll have all that behind me, with nothing to do but rest and wait for you to come home at night."

"Too tired to do a little shopping for me, darling, while you are at it? You know me—the only time I care about shopping is when I am buying something for you."

"Of course I am not too tired for that, Nicoli," Sheila answered reproachfully. "I'd love it."

Later in the evening Sheila lay stretched out lazily on the sofa with Nicoli reclining on the luxurious fur rug beside her. Her graceful fingers wandered lightly through Nicoli's hair as they listened to the soothing tones of the radio. The throbbing notes of a mighty organ filled the room—the organist was playing Always.

Sheila's hand pulled Nicoli's dark head closer. "Darling," she said softly, "I want you to know what I've been thinking just now."

"What is it, sweetheart?" Nicoli looked up.

"Well..." Sheila hesitated. "I know it sounds flowery, but I've been thinking that no matter what the years may bring to us, and no matter how things may seem, I want you to believe and know that I'm always yours, Nicoli—that I'll always be loving you and wanting you—" her voice dropped to a fervent murmur—"always, my lover, always."

Nicoli looked long into Sheila's earnest eyes. "I've always known you were completely mine, darling. You could never be anything else, any more than that song could ever belong to anyone other than you in my mind. I never hear it without remembering the way you sang it that first time I saw you. I think I must have loved you even then..." The words trailed off, lost in the enveloping warmth of Sheila's kiss.

* * *

The following night Nicoli came home early. All day long she had heard no word from Sheila. She had called the apartment twice during the day, but then she remembered that Sheila was shopping. Perhaps she had been too tired to come by the office as she had so often done before.

"How silly for me to feel that something is out of order," she told herself shortly. "She is not a child who has to give an account of every moment of her day."

She rang the bell to their apartment. Sheila was not yet home. She took her key from her bag and unlocked the door.

On the floor just inside the door lay a letter addressed in Sheila's familiar handwriting. A nameless fear clutched her. Hastily she tore the letter open, her eyes flashing across the pages... eyes that gradually dimmed with tears as she read the words that were forever to remain in her heart:

"My darling—

"I need not try to tell you how cruelly difficult it is for me to write this. You must know what you mean to me, and how I feel. I have known for months that although you love me dearly you have been unhappy—unhappy because of outside influences over which you and I have no power.

"You are fine and good, my sweetheart, and it is unfair that you should suffer the pain of our being the subject of so much discussion. I know that you have tried desperately not to worry, but in spite of your efforts you have worried. You cannot, must not be allowed to go on trying to fight a losing battle, one from which neither you nor I can hope to emerge victorious.

"Our love is not an accepted one, darling, and sooner or later the constant onslaught will have its deadly effect, and it will become torn and broken. I could not bear that, my Nicoli —it is too perfect, and so I choose rather to keep it always in my heart as it now is even though many miles and many years may separate us, and many tears mark their passage. I love you, my own, and always will be

Your Sheila."

* * *

Months passed... months of desperate silence for Nicoli; days and weeks of torture and effort to keep herself from the endeavor to find Sheila and implore her to return; nights when in her agony she cried out to God asking Him to ease the sorrow and longing in her heart; sinking into the furthermost depths of grief—struggling vainly to erase from the impressionable canvas of her memory the exquisite picture of her life with Sheila.

Yet... in her mind she was ever conscious that Sheila had been right. It was best to sacrifice their love now that it might live eternally in its entirety, unsullied by further contact with a ruthless world. Yes, it was best so—to let it go while it was yet perfect; to keep it always enshrined in their hearts away from human power to harm its gloriousness; to protect it ever from the fires that eventually would destroy it and reduce it to ashes.

PART THREE

Allison Graham

"For passion ebbs and passion flows,

But under every new caress

The riven heart more keenly knows

Its own inviolate faithfulness.” —Yasmini—India’s Love Lyrics

When Sheila left Nicoli she went to a small town upstate where she felt certain she would not be known, there to think and search for some possible way out of the difficult situation that confronted her.

Upon her arrival she took rooms at a picturesque hotel nestled away in a valley. All around her were peace and quiet, yet the very stillness, the very peace of it, only served to magnify the unrest in her troubled mind.

She walked far into the hills that first day thinking, always thinking, of the decision she knew she must abide by. It wasn't fair to Nicoli, she told herself again, to go on, with people constantly discussing them and their lives together. She couldn't bear to see Nicoli trying bravely to disregard the criticisms of the public—their public that had made them both so successful—nor could she let them ruin the only thing she had ever found that completely filled her life.

Why should they be allowed to destroy it by their thoughtless gossip who couldn't possibly understand whereof they gossiped? How could they hope to know the completeness of that love—the sheer ecstasy and the wild joys of it, the spiritual beauty and the tender happiness of it?

How could they in their complacent, prosaic normality understand or be tolerant of those who dared to be different, who must be different because they had been flung willy-nilly into a world of standards without being themselves fashioned according to those same standards?

It was as though they must become a part of life's sideshow, the freaks who apparently did not care; in reality, a sideshow filled with torn and twisted spirits who struggle to conform, to delve into the mystery of their being, all the while battering their lives and their loves against an impregnable wall of convention, praying that the day might come when they will no longer be pointed out or shunned, ostracized by a society which draws aside its skirts that it may not touch in passing the denizens of a twilight world.

A biased, prejudiced world would deprive them of everything necessary for their happiness, condemning them for the very depth and sensitiveness of their natures. It would tear down all they could build up, arrogating the right to destroy that of which it did not approve. The old truism that a person likes only that which he knows and understands came to Sheila's mind afresh. She could not gainsay it: she was forced to admit that she was powerless to change a convention-bound world—that she must give up Nicoli. Far better that than to tear her down from the high position she had made for herself in the world of the theater; better a thousand times that she go away, leaving Nicoli her self-respect, the principles for which she had so many years fought, and the respect of her fellows who would soon forget in their admiration for her success any departure from the normal.

Nicoli was creative; she could sublimate her emotions in her work. She would be lonely, yes; she would be hurt; she would be lost during the cruel period of adjustment—but in the end, she would be... perhaps even grateful. Sheila winced; but she told herself with finality that it was better so, better that she had written the letter bidding farewell to all that mattered to her—loving it so much that she chose to destroy it herself rather than see it dragged down by unfriendly hands from the pinnacle upon which she had placed it.

There followed weeks of aimless wandering, with ever the temptation to go back, just for an hour—until Sheila finally realized that she must set a great distance between herself and the one thing she loved. The desire to fly back grew more and more unbearable, and she feared that one day, weakened by insatiable longing, she might yield to that temptation. She did not care where she went; the only important consideration was that it must be far, too far for her to be able to return easily. The solution seemed to be a round-the-world cruise. She booked passage with the idea of lingering wherever her wavering fancy might dictate; after all, why plan now?

Motion, change, adventure—recourse to sophistication which had once been wholly lost in love; that seemed the only refuge.

* * *

On the outward voyage Sheila paced the decks at night as they stretched white and gleaming before her in the moonlight. Moonlight that carried her back to the nights spent close to Nicoli when they had driven along roads bathed in its pale rays; or had sat entwined in each other's arms looking out over the river that was visible from their apartment. Unforgettable nights beneath the stars and moon when they had vowed ever to belong each to the other and forever to keep their love sacred and true.

Sheila knew that so long as that bond remained unbroken there could be no relief from the overpowering sadness that gripped her heart and held it fast. She must definitely place a barrier between them, an insurmountable wall to keep her forever beyond the pale of Nicoli's arms. For Sheila felt that once she had broken their vows of fidelity, she could never again return to the woman to whom she had given herself.

So the metamorphosis came about. Sheila threw off her cloak of reserve and no longer shunned the companionship of people. Nights found her beautifully gowned, surrounded by men in the salon of the luxuriously appointed liner or dancing gaily to the music of the ship's orchestra until the early hours of the morning—laughing—talking—drinking—dancing—at a pace made possible by the wealth of nervous energy within her; scarcely stopping for rest, but driving herself on and on until when she did stop there was no time for thought: her tired body demanded sleep.

Round and round spun this world of activity into which Sheila had thrown herself with such abandon. What matter what she did, so long as all thought of Nicoli was killed? What matter whose arms embraced her, whose lips found hers, so long as they widened the fast-growing chasm between them?

Allison Graham had been attracted to Sheila almost from the first hour of the trip, watching and wondering about the strangely lovely woman who remained so aloof, rejecting all overtures of friendship from her fellow passengers. Then, like a butterfly bursting its chrysalis, he saw her cast off her reserve and emerge—brilliant, dazzling in her new gaiety.

Immediately he sought the captain.

"Captain Braide, are you doing your full duty as a host? I have never been presented to the gorgeous blonde who has been in your company almost exclusively for the past two evenings. You have the advantage of the rest of us; you can talk to any one of your passengers without introduction, but it isn't sporting of you to indulge the privilege when I am lonesome."

"Really, Mr. Graham, I am sorry! It had not occurred to me that you did not know the lady, since you have just come out from New York. She is Sheila Case, the actress who starred for two years in The Woman Alone. Don't try to tell me you haven't seen her—the most talked of play in recent years?"

"Oh-h-h." Graham drew out the exclamation softly. "That explains the feeling I've had for days that she was someone I should know. Oddly enough, I missed the play, but I heard much comment on it and on Miss Case's interpretation of the part, and I saw her photographs, of course. I really intended to see her, but I was busy during my short stay in New York this time, and I did not get about much. I rather think I made a mistake, and it's important that I meet her now, to rectify that mistake."

"At dinner, then," promised the captain.

* * *

"Miss Case, may I present Mr. Graham? He is practically a commuter, and I think he should be able to make the trip more interesting for you," said Captain Braide, relinquishing Sheila's hand and bowing himself away.

"I may as well admit that I asked for this introduction, Miss Case. Captain Braide has been telling me what I missed by failing to see The Woman Alone—and I was beginning to believe that you were still living the role from habit, for you haven't been particularly clubby, you know. Tired?"

Seizing on his last words for an excuse, Sheila replied with a sighing laugh, "Dreadfully so. Two long years of it, with no rest, almost no privacy—and when the show closed I felt that I must be alone for at least a little while. But one soon has enough of one's exclusive society, so now I find myself ready to play again."

"I've been waiting for you to play with me, I think—I seem to have kept myself free from all entangling alliances thus far." Allison Graham's laughing eyes challenged Sheila's. "Shall we dance, or just talk about ourselves? I'll answer my own question: we'll talk. There are so many things I have been wanting to say to you. There are so many things a man must say to a beautiful woman."

Sheila had few hours alone now. Allison Graham sought her companionship sedulously aboard ship, and wandered through the many ports of call in her company, taking delight in showing her the spots he knew of old, and poking about in search of new ones, charmed by her eager interest and her thirst for new experiences. In the weeks thus spent he had become more and more attached to Sheila, the desire to possess her becoming the dominant thought in his mind, her desirability intensified by her aloofness.

In Port Said they had spent the day driving about the city and the surrounding country, returning late in the afternoon just as the last warm rays of the tropical sun cast their crimson light across the sky. The air was close, and Sheila was fatigued from the long, hot, dusty drive.

"Allison, let's dine in my suite; then we can be lazy and comfortable and cool. Should you like that for a change?"

"Rather! I'll order dinner sent up, and I'll be with you as soon as I can get out of these dusty clothes."

A few short hours found them laughing gaily over a perfect dinner served by a colorful native waiter. Allison thought he had never seen Sheila more alluring. She had donned a dinner frock of filmy black which closely followed the lines of her lovely body, cut low at the neck to reveal the soft white skin that seemed made for caresses. Her beautiful blonde hair molded close to her head made for her cameo-like features a glittering frame as the soft lights played upon it, seeking out the gold of which it was apparently fashioned.

Sheila knew that Allison was attracted to her, fascinated even, to a point which he himself did not yet realize. Sheila liked his obvious attachment to her, his thoughtful regard for her every slight wish; too, she found him stimulating company.

He was an unusual type of man; one could never be quite sure of what he might be thinking behind his steel gray eyes—eyes that became strangely dark at times, or lighted up as if by hidden batteries when something displeased him. His moods were mercurial, leaping from the heights of hilarity to the depths of melancholy without warning, displaying his capacity for running the gamut of human emotions. He was a striking figure, this man in his early forties. His tall, well-knit body set off to advantage the immaculateness of his attire and his faultless grooming, his bronzed skin making his face oddly young despite the soft powdering of gray at his temples.

Allison Graham was a man who had really lived, who plainly had seen life in all of its many phases; from choice, certainly, because for years he had spent his time satisfying his desire for travel—not merely the soft, easy travel of the luxury-loving, but hard journeys-into the most nearly inaccessible spots of earth where there were few comforts. Sheila had gathered from his casual conversation that he had found especial satisfaction in rubbing shoulders with his Far Eastern brothers, through whose association he had formed many exotic tastes and habits. Many things he had told her wittingly; many others he had unconsciously allowed to creep into his conversation. Still there was much that he had buried deep in the recesses of a secret mind, and it was this hidden side of his personality which called to Sheila.

How like a part of a great planned scheme it was that he should have been on her boat, Sheila reflected. He had returned to New York five months before to look after financial interests, intending to stay on for perhaps a year; yet upon the completion of his business affairs he had been surprised to find himself unwilling to linger; with no definite plans in mind, he seemed anxious to be off again—so he had started on the journey that was destined to link his life with that of Sheila Case.

Sheila was vivacious throughout the dinner, but she grew pensive at its close, and sat with a far-away look in her dark eyes, holding a cigarette in her slender fingers and watching its smoke curl lazily up into the shadows. Allison lay back in his chair studying her, his eyes drawn to her hands. Almost from their first meeting, he had been fascinated by the graceful movements of those tapering hands, their sensuous beauty giving promise of a touch which could be both soothing and maddening.

He was aroused from his reverie by the almost noiseless entrance of the Egyptian manservant. Rising and crossing over to Sheila, he took her hands in his own and pulled her gently to her feet.

"Shall we go out on the balcony while the dinner service is being removed? You have been so lost in your thoughts that I have been afraid to speak for fear I'd" shatter a dream. But you can dream out there under the stars."

* * *

"How beautiful," breathed Sheila. "How remote and pure, and yet stirring. The starlight seems to be blue—Allison, it's the peculiar blue light one finds on Christmas scenes of the Wise Men following the Star in search of the Christ Child! Now I see why the artists always use that especial blue—it's realism."

Allison was stirred by the depth of Sheila's feeling. "Isn't it paradoxical that the same light in the sky, the same shade of blue that calls to the sublime selflessness of the spiritual side of man appeals even more powerfully to the sensual, the physical passions? Is it any wonder that the ancient peoples who loved under these sense-enkindling stars have set for all men the traditions of perfection in love?"

Graham's normally clear tones deepened and roughened. He ceased speaking as there came to them from the distance the plaintive strains of a native instrument, its weird melody striking against ears now sensitive to its urging, imploring them to live while they could, to drink the joy and passion which life had to offer while there yet was time. Allison without a word drew Sheila to him, kissing her long and fiercely, caressing her hair, the hands that held such fascination for him, and the soft white throat that her gown so proudly exposed.

"Sheila, sweetheart—I want you. You have set me on fire; you are in my blood! You fulfill every desire of my being," he whispered, crushing her closer to his body. Without waiting for answer, he rushed on, imploring Sheila never to leave him, to go on with him, to stay with him to love and idolize.

Sheila lay against his breast unspeaking. When he sought her lips again, she looked long into his eyes and slowly tightened her arm across his shoulders. Allison picked her up in his arms and carried her into her room, telling her again, "I love you so—I need you—I need you, Sheila, I tell you. I've wanted you so long."

Sheila gave herself to Allison Graham—but in the thundering silence of the room her heart cried out in anguish against the breaking of her vows to Nicoli; vows that to Sheila meant all of life, yet vows that she must destroy. She herself must deliberately make of them broken bits, to be buried forever in the bottom of her heart—only there they could never be anything but whole.

As the vista of life with Allison Graham stretched before her, Sheila knew that on this night she was bidding farewell to Nicoli—she must. From that hour on she would be with him. If granting him herself would give him happiness, then the future years would not be altogether futile ones.

So making others happy brings happiness, life's only happiness? She would see. She must have someone for whom to live, someone to whom she was necessary; in making Allison happy she would at least find an excuse for her own existence, even though she herself found nothing more.

"Forget yourself; from now on lose yourself in living for the man whose arms hold you in such longing embrace. Warm arms that want to bring warmth to your own icy heart" —for a strange coldness had gripped her heart, closing it to anyone but Nicoli. Sealed within its walls their love would live on always; nothing she could do would have the power to change that. But it must be kept sealed... to herself, from herself. Sheila made her decision.

* * *

The real Sheila whom Nicoli had known and loved was gone; in her place was a stranger, a lovely, glittering, careless, hedonistic stranger, who lived only for the present, building nothing for the future which stretched before her as only a broad expanse of empty years.

Essentially an actress, she was able to convey to Allison the idea that she wanted to be with him. For all that she took from him, she gave of herself in return. She made a very careful point of being unvaryingly enchanting to him, of grooming herself for his own particular delight, of adapting herself to his moods, so that without talking of love, she created the illusion of love. And Graham never suspected that there was a veil beyond which he was not to see.

Sheila and Allison traveled constantly. They had made no plans, choosing rather to live a nomadic life, disregarding conventions; roaming from country to country, from continent to continent, taking the splendors of nature and the gayety of man-made cities all in their stride.

Again the thread that was Sheila had been caught up by the Weaver and was being skillfully woven into the pattern of Allison's life—woven so stealthily that even he could not see the irreparable ravel that would result when the skeins should be broken and parted.

Weeks and months flew by, filled with days of activity and nights spent in Allison's arms. As Sheila listened to Allison's repeated assertions of how much she had come to mean to him and how empty his life had been before her coming, she found that she was growing to love him in a commingled fashion: feeling toward him as a mother feels toward the child she holds nestled close to her breast, whose whims and sudden changes of temperament she humors; sensing the loneliness of the heart whose unrest had kept him ceaselessly wandering; knowing that he needed her by his side, a complement to his many-faceted personality; viewing the change she had wrought in his daily scheme of living and realizing that she could never send him back to his solitude so long as he depended upon her for his happiness.

So the current of time flowed on in its relentless course carrying with it the two persons whose lives had become interwoven in so singular a fashion.

* * *

"Sheila, I have news for you. Just had a cable from New York that I ought to run over to straighten out a tangle in the administration of Mother's estate. Harrison Blair, the attorney who has been handling my affairs, doesn't want to take the responsibility in this case, and after all, he's had all of my work to do for over a year. Feel that you would like to go back for a few months?"

"Of course, Allison. There's no point in my staying on here and letting you take the long trip alone," Sheila forced herself to answer casually.

"I rather think I'd like to get my teeth into a little work for a change. I've been disgracefully idle, but it is such a temptation to play around with you, Sheila, that I don't suppose I'd ever break away voluntarily." Allison talked on, not noticing Sheila's abstraction.

Her heart had taken a sudden downward plunge at his news. How could she return to New York—the spot wherein she and her beloved Nicoli had spent such happy days? Why... to do so would seem like walking through some ancient graveyard inhabited by the ghosts of her dead dreams. The wraith-like fingers of her lost love would clutch at her heart daily; the spectre of her life with Nicoli would envelop her in its shadowy robes and walk with her hourly. There could be no escape from their phantom presence.

She was afraid—afraid to go back lest all her resolutions never to see Nicoli again he shattered. How could she bear to be in close proximity to Nicoli yet never see her? How live in New York among the people who knew of their lives together and who would certainly soon know of her life with Allison? How could she bear for Nicoli to think that she had forgotten their love? And yet she knew that was what Nicoli must be made to think, if the principles for which she had sacrificed herself were to be protected. For what else had she been building? Nicoli must be made to feel that forgetting for Sheila had not been too difficult.

* * *

On the homeward voyage it was doubly hard for Sheila to remain the woman into whom she had transformed herself, and even more trying to live that alien woman's life. Try as she might, her thoughts persisted in winging back to Nicoli. She lived anew their span of time together, dwelling in dreams of their love and its fulfillment, feeling again the pain of their separation, and becoming conscious anew of the leaden weight she carried in her heart. Only the fact that Allison had found old business acquaintances on shipboard saved her; she could not have endured trying to hold up her end of conversation night and day, and she thanked Allison in fervid silence for the hours he left her to spend alone.

* * *

Immediately on arrival in New York Allison was caught up in a rush of business, endeavoring to tie up the loose ends of affairs neglected for months, save for an occasional letter or cable. But he was apparently tireless, for he made no complaint that their evenings were spent in a whirl of parties given by his old friends to celebrate his return to what they called "the land of the living."

A care-free crowd they were, whose one aim seemed to be to see just how fast they could spin the wheel of gayety. Round and round with it spun Sheila, drinking and dancing most of the night and feeling nothing but contempt for herself the next day. At times she detested Allison for having set her down again among the people who were responsible for her present mode of living, responsible for the tearing down of all her ideals, for the loss of all that she loved. Not that these particular people were responsible, but they were a part of the city which had talked, and to her they represented all that she despised. She was with them only when she must be, only when Allison noticing nothing, carried her out of herself by his own vitality.

During the day she was restless. She could not sleep late, despite the late hours they kept, and she turned constantly about in her mind for something which would occupy her time to the exclusion of her own brooding thoughts. After a few months of association with the bohemian crowd that were Allison's friends, she finally turned back to thoughts of the theater as a possible means of escape from the continual round of unwanted excitement. In that, she would have a valid excuse for absenting herself from their gatherings, leaving Allison to pursue his own pleasures. He would not mind, for he would know that when he needed her, she would be there.

And he would need her—that Sheila knew. She knew to her infinite sorrow what she had suspected and feared almost constantly since first she had gone to Allison: that an insidious force was at work in his body, driving him without mercy, that one day would expend the nervous energy which now spurred him and would lay him crushed and broken in her arms. It had gradually penetrated to her consciousness that he was under the influence of some eastern drug which accounted for his varied moods and the brittle brilliance of his personality, his mad desire to keep moving as if to run away from himself. Discuss it with him she could not. Just as she had retreated behind her own wall of reserve, so she respected his like desire for privacy concerning the affairs which he considered peculiarly his own. There was nothing she could do save watch and wait. She tried not to think about it, accepting the fact that he would talk to her when he chose, and that he felt secure in his secret.

Perhaps it would be better now that he was busy all day, and happy among old familiar surroundings.

Perhaps.

* * *

"Allison, dear," Sheila opened the subject at dinner. "You are so busy, and apparently getting such fun out of it, that I seem to feel a sudden urge to work again myself. Would you mind too much if I went back to the theater? I suppose being in New York again has made me homesick, and after all, I have very little to occupy my time."

"Tired of just playing, Sheila? I can't say that I blame you. I don't like the idea of your working particularly... but I won't be selfish about it. I know how the theater fastens itself on one. It would give you a great deal of pleasure to go back, wouldn't it, dear?"

"Allison, you are sweet! It would give me pleasure. There's a challenge in it: remember that I was once the much-talked-of Sheila Case."

"Much-talked-of," she mused, the irony of the thought bitter to every fiber of her senses. "Talk—'and every word stabs'—"

She was pulled back to reality in time to catch Allison's "I'll be proud of you, Sheila. I'll get a big kick out of your putting it over."

"Thanks, booster. I'll go down to see Friedman in the morning. Let's not talk about it any more until I see what he has to offer."

Sheila rose from the table and kissed Allison lightly on his graying temple, saying, "I shall have to dress now. I won't keep you waiting long."

* * *

Herman Friedman sat talking to the actor whose sensational comeback the past season in one of Friedman's shows had made him one of the outstanding drawing cards along Broadway.

The producer had gambled—and won—on Philip Rowan's ability to put the new play successfully over. Business associates had been skeptical of assigning such an important part to a man who had practically vanished from the theaters for the better part of two years. However, Friedman had been firm in his conviction and had given Philip the starring role. The rest was history: his splendid characterization, the enthusiasm with which it had been received, and most gratifying of all to the producer, the leap upward that had shown nightly in his box office statements. Yes, it had been a good bet. He was well satisfied.

Besides, Friedman had always felt most friendly toward Rowan. They had been good friends ever since the day when he had first met the young actor—he felt that he was straight, and clean, and genuine. He had handled Philip for several seasons and it was in one of his shows that Philip had met Sheila Case and married her.

It had been Friedman who had tried to swerve Philip from his decision to leave New York and the theater when his marriage with Sheila had proved a mistake. However, his advice had been rejected, and the boy had disappeared.

Friedman studied Philip as he talked. Yes, he had aged a trifle, and there was beyond any doubt the same sad, far-away look in his eyes that he had noticed when he had first seen him again—an expression that said plainly Philip Rowan had not forgotten. The actor's next words verified Friedman's shrewd guess:

"By the way, have you ever heard of anything from Sheila, Herman?" Philip's casual tone was obviously assumed.

"Not a word, Phil, and I don't know of anyone who has. I saw Nicoli a week or so ago, and she hasn't ever had a line from Sheila—said she didn't have the remotest idea where she was."

The distant look in Philip's eyes was intensified. "No, I'm sure she doesn't know. You see, I asked her when I wanted Sheila's address to notify her about the divorce."

The telephone rang. Friedman answered. A look of surprise came over his face as he listened.

"That's fine," he said warmly. "I'll be glad to see what we can find for you. Better drop in around eleven tomorrow— we'll talk it over then."

He replaced the receiver and turned back to Philip. "Well, speak of the devil!" he exploded. "That was Sheila, Phil! She's back, and wants me to find her a play. She's coming in tomorrow morning. Said she'd been abroad for the past two years—no wonder we didn't hear about her. She says she hasn't been working—just traveling, it seems."

The color had faded from Philip's face at the startling news. His voice was shaky.

"I want to see her, Herman. I must. Do you mind if I come up in the morning?"

"Not at all, old man—do it if you think you want to. I'm sure she will be glad to see you." Friedman eyed him keenly. "You're sure you can stand it, Phil? You know I don't want you cracking up now."

The muscles in Philip's face tightened as he answered, "Don't worry, Herman—I'll be okay. You see, I just want to... see her again—that's all."

* * *

Eleven o'clock. The door of Herman Friedman's office opened, and Sheila entered.

"Sheila Case! I am glad to see you." Herman Friedman's round dark features broke into a smile as he rose to greet the truant actress. His pudgy fingers gripped Sheila's slender ones. "Sit down—tell me all about yourself."

Sheila seated herself. "Nothing much to tell, Herman, I've been all over—the main thing is I'm back and I want to work. I'm really anxious to get started. Have you anything in mind?"

Friedman noted the evasive answer to his query as to her absence, thrust it aside and proceeded.

"Well, to be honest about it, I haven't a thing of my own that I'm casting. You know I have one of the hits of the season running now—consequently I hadn't thought of doing anything else at present. Thought I'd lay by a few shekels first." Friedman laughed goodnaturedly.

Sheila spoke up quickly, her statement bringing a surprised expression to Friedman's face. "The money part of it is all right, Herman. I'll finance it myself. All I want you to do is find the play and produce it."

"Didn't marry a millionaire, did you, Sheila?" he asked.

Sheila sought about for an answer. What was the use to lie, she asked herself. Herman was obliged to find out about Allison sooner or later; so would Nicoli—the thought hurt—yet wasn't that exactly what she had decided must happen to keep her, definitely, from going to her? Yes, she might just as well tell Herman—she would. Sheila braced herself.

"No, I haven't married, but I have met someone I'm very much interested in. We've—ah—been abroad together for two years—he's here now."

The words shocked Friedman. He could understand them coming from anyone else but Sheila Case. What had happened to her—the girl he had first known? Where were the high ideals that had been such a part of her? He sighed. Well, maybe he'd been mistaken after all. Women were such funny things. His thoughts turned to Philip. What would he think when he knew? Would it be just what the boy needed to help him banish Sheila from his heart?

The producer tried to speak. Sheila noted his difficulty.

"Don't say it, Herman—you see, I know what you are thinking." She went on, hurriedly, "Now what about a play?"

"I'll get busy today, Sheila," Friedman promised. "Drop in Wednesday morning about this same time. I think I'll have something to show you by then. I've turned down several in the last few days because I wasn't in the market just at present; however, I'll get in touch with the authors right away. One of them I thought especially good—at any rate, we'll see."

"That's fine, Herman." Sheila prepared to leave. "I'll see you then on Wednesday morning."

The door of the outer office closed. Someone had come in. Friedman glanced at his desk clock—just eleven—Sheila had been a bit early. Yes, he thought, that would be Philip. The producer got up.

"Just a minute, Sheila, before you go. I think there's someone here that wants to see you." He walked into the outer office.

Sheila's heart sank. Was it Nicoli? Surely it couldn't be... A familiar voice came to her ears—Philip's voice. She breathed a sigh of relief. Yet with that feeling of escape came a sense of bitter disappointment: despite her fears she had really wanted it to be Nicoli. She turned as Philip entered.

"Sheila—" Philip's hands reached out eagerly to grasp her own trembling ones.

Seeing him again brought back to her mind the past she had tried so resolutely to forget. It had all seemed so far away... but now the ashy dust of those distant days had risen in a cloud to clog her nostrils and throat and keep her from speaking.

Philip went on, endeavoring to speak lightly. "It is good to see you, Sheila—" his words lost their brightness—"I've wanted to so often."

Sheila's fingers tightened about Philip's. "I'm so happy to know you feel that way, Phil. I do want to know that you have forgiven me."

"We'll forget all of that, Sheila. However, I do want to tell you that I tried to reach you about our—divorce. We are divorced, you know."

"No—I didn't know," Sheila replied thoughtfully. "You see, I've been away so long."

Philip went on. "I waited a long time. Then, when at last I had given up hope that some day you might come back to me—you were gone."

Sheila endeavored to direct the conversation into safer channels. "I'm back now to do a show, Phil. Herman is going to find one for me."

“That's great! But say, I didn't know he was thinking of producing another show now. You know I'm working in one of his at the Garrick; we're in our sixteenth week and we've had marvelous write-ups on it. You'll have to see it, Sheila. Without Glory is the name of it."

"I will—you may be sure of that, Phil. Have you a good part?" she inquired with genuine interest.

"The best I've ever had. Herman gave me a real break: he starred me in it. Took an awful chance, too—I was away from New York nearly two years, right after... we separated."

"That wasn't such a tremendous chance, Phil—you always were clever and you know it." Sheila glanced at her watch.

"I must run! I didn't have any idea it was so late. Tell Herman goodbye for me—and—" Sheila extended her hand—"goodbye to you, Phil, and the best of luck."

With a parting smile she hurriedly left the office. Philip sank into a chair beside the desk where Friedman found him a few moments later, head in his hands, apparently lost in thought.

"What's the matter, Phil?" he asked hesitantly. The actor raised his head. His eyes met Friedman's kindly ones.

"What's happened to her, Herman? What is there about her that's so different? I sense it but I can't seem to put my finger on what it is."

The older man reached for a cigar, lighted it, and leaned back in his chair, then answered.

"She is changed. She isn't the same woman at all. Sheila Case as we knew her could never live as she is living—"

The last words slipped out.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Phil—nothing. I wasn't thinking what I was saying. So many things on my mind, you know."

Philip's features took on a perplexed expression; but before he could press his questions further, Friedman spoke again.

"You'll have to excuse me now, I'm afraid. Sorry to chase you away, Phil, but business is business and I have an appointment."

Philip rose. "No apologies are necessary, Herman. I understand perfectly. See you later."

* * *

On Wednesday morning Sheila again felt the searing iron. A play of Nicoli's had just been offered for production and Friedman insisted that it was just the vehicle for her. She had difficulty in making him see that it was not the type of play she wanted. She did want something that would have the appeal and fire of Nicoli's work, but not one of her own plays —not without Nicoli to produce it—not just a part of Nicoli.

"This time I want something entirely different, Herman. You must remember I've been away from show business approximately two years." Sheila paused. "That's a long time on Broadway, as you know. Therefore the play we choose for my comeback must carry a decidedly new idea. It must—"

Sheik searched about in her mind for a legitimate excuse for refusing Nicoli's script, knowing that Friedman knew as well as she did that it was an unusually strong one as well as a strictly original theme.

She continued, "At any rate, none of the things you have submitted to me thus far appeals to me. I'm not trying to be temperamental, Herman—but won't you see what else you can find?"

"All right, Sheila, just as you say. I'll look around, and I'll give you a ring within the next few days."

Sheila walked from the office disheartened. In her heart she knew that she had rejected the greater number of the plays Friedman had suggested because they were not up to Nicoli's standard. She longed to use Nicoli's new one, but she could not bring herself to consider such a thing—to read lines written by her beloved Nicoli. It carried a role into which she could have put all of herself, and all others suffered by comparison.

"I can't do it, I won't do it—and I shall accept the next thing he offers that is half way suitable. The longer I delay, the harder I will make it for myself."

* * *

At last a play was selected, and plans for staging it were completed. And still Sheila's mind was filled with misgivings.

Broadway had ceased to speculate as to the whereabouts of Sheila Case. She might well have vanished from the earth for all the news that had reached New York. Two years had passed when from theatrical centers flashed the report that she was back from a world cruise and had signed a contract to do a new show, production to begin immediately.

Almost on the heels of this news came whispers concerning the angel behind the new venture. His name was Graham, so the story ran; he was in love with Sheila Case, and had been her companion on her long tour. Even now she was living with him openly in one of Park Avenue's exclusive apartment hotels. There could be no doubt of it—hadn't attaches of the Friedman office seen his checks and heard Miss Case herself tell the producer of their unconventional relationship? Wasn't he almost always at the theater to pick her up after rehearsals?

The feeble remaining spark of the gossip about Nicoli and Sheila was quickly fanned back into life by this new tinder. The groups who had discussed them previously took up the old argument.

Friends fought to protect the actress from this new attack, saying that if the latest rumor was true, then it definitely proved that there had never been anything abnormal in the friendship that had existed between her and Nicoli; otherwise, would she have left New York with a man as she apparently must have done ? No, they insisted; Sheila Case was strictly a man's woman and always had been—and once again they stressed the fact that she was so essentially feminine. True, she might be guilty of this latest charge, but at least she was exonerated from the older and more damning one.

Once again the foul minds to whom gossip and scandal were meat and drink spread malicious stories about Sheila's latest escapade, as they called it. Didn't it show conclusively that she was one of those people whose sex-ridden brains would allow them to do anything for the momentary thrill that they might derive? Man or woman, what difference could it make to one of her type so long as her insatiable appetite for bodily pleasures was satisfied?

It was inevitable that bits of these discussions should read Philip's ears. Could it be true, he pondered. Would Sheila live openly with any man? How could he associate that actor with the lovely girl who had been his wife? Yet—she had changed; even Friedman had noticed it. His friend's hastily spoken words returned to add weight to the rumors: "The Sheila Case we knew could never have lived as she is living." Yes—that was what Herman had said, and this was the thing that had prompted it.

Had he been wrong in his judgment of Sheila from the first? Philip repeatedly asked himself this question. The answer was, finally, he must have been. She evidently had not been possessed of the lofty ideals and inherently fine qualities which he had attributed to her. If such were the case, then it was best after all that their marriage had ended—sooner or later it would have anyway.

Philip sorrowfully dismissed all thought of Sheila as she was now from his mind, and determined to cherish instead the memories of the high-minded, beautiful girl who had stood beside him at the altar so long ago. Behind the closed doors of his heart he would love the dream of her always—as a woman she would cease to exist.

Nicoli read of Sheila's return and waited impatiently for the announcement of the opening date, reading all she could find about it during the rehearsal period, gazing at the press photographs of Sheila until with misty eyes she laid them aside. Had Sheila forgotten, she asked herself... forgotten, as she herself had forgotten, when at night she lay with aching arms and feverish lips, repeating the name of the woman she loved, hearing in fancy her voice close to her ear, seeing again her fair head on the pillow beside her? "How sweet you were in your sleep, with the starlight, silver and sable, across your hair."

So terribly did she want to see Sheila again that it was almost beyond her power of will to hold in check the impulse to seek out her beloved. Only the fear lest she find her indifferent to the love they had known could stem the tide of that impulse.

Better a thousand times never to see her precious face again than to see those wistful brooding eyes with a light in them other than the one she remembered and loved so well. Nor could she bear to see the mobile mouth form the cold words of a formal greeting, the mouth whose kisses had been the only barrier between a heaven of happiness and a hell of loneliness.

Then out of Nicoli's sea of doubts would rise a wave of strength-giving faith assuring her once again that Sheila did love her and would continue to love her, always. Sheila's words came back, lending confidence: "No matter how things may seem, I'll be loving you always." Surely now was the time when Nicoli needed the reassurance of those words, now while all their old friends and acquaintances were telling of Sheila's new love. Somehow she could not rid her mind of the feeling that, hidden deep beneath the surface, there existed a real reason for Sheila's unusual actions. Had this been her way of seeking forgetfulness, her way of giving back the self-respect she felt her love had stolen from the one person she had vowed to belong to always? Nicoli's broken heart told her it had been.

* * *

Sheila's play opened with Nicoli sitting in the darkened theater, heart pounding furiously, waiting impatiently for the opening curtain to rise. After what seemed an endless wait, the play commenced, with Sheila on the stage almost from the beginning. Sheila Case... Nicoli scarcely recognized the actress as the woman she had directed so successfully, and whom she had loved, still did love, so deeply. In her stead walked a new, cold, marble-like Sheila, someone entirely foreign to her memories.

Gone was the warmth of voice, the softness of speech that had held her in their thrall. Gone was the wealth of tenderness that had made her so alluring. In their place was a steellike quality, a defiant hardness that broke her heart to see. Sheila was only a ghost of the woman she had known. Or was she? Had she been wrong in her estimation of Sheila's depth, her capacity to love, her ability to care save for the moment? Or was this defiance a veneer, or a protective veil behind which to hide scars of the blows life had dealt her?

Nicoli pondered the question in her heart as she watched the play. Would time perhaps answer her question? Would it perhaps bring back to her the Sheila she loved? She bowed her head, praying that time would change the trend of the world's thoughts so that some day their love might flower again. She prayed, too, that Sheila might be conscious of her nearness, and of her thoughts.

"Once our thoughts were so close that either of us could have sensed the presence of the other—now I have to ask for it."

* * *

Sheila was vaguely displeased with her performance and tried frantically to build her work as the play progressed, but to no avail. Try as she might, there was no depth to her voice, she felt, with the result that all of her emotional scenes were unconvincing—lifeless.

"Was Nicoli out there?" Sheila asked herself as, thoroughly disheartened, she walked to her dressing room after the final curtain.

"Did she see that flat performance? What must she think of me? How different it might have been if she had been with me! I wanted her to be here, I wanted her to care enough to come—but I can't bear the idea of what she must be thinking."

Allison and a group of friends were waiting for her at her dressing-room door. They greeted her with enthusiastic cries of approval to which Sheila tried to respond graciously.

"You were magnificent, Sheila! I've never seen you more beautiful," from Allison. "Superb!" from the men with him. A confused babel of words from the women, which might have been anything.

"Hurry, Sheila, and get dressed. We are having a supper party for you. We'll wait outside, but don't be long, will you?"

Allison stopped for a moment. "Are you too tired, Sheila? But I'm so proud of you—I would like to show you off."

"Of course I'm not too tired. I should really like it," Sheila lied bravely. "I'll be with you in fifteen minutes."

The dressing room was massed with flowers sent by the many admirers, old and new, of Sheila Case, and on her makeup shelf lay a number of telegrams wishing her success and expressing joy at her return. All evening Sheila had hoped that a wire might come from Nicoli, but so far none had appeared. She quickly tore open the three which had come in just as she entered the dressing room—no word from Nicoli. Sheila wandered abstractedly about the room reading the small cards attached to the flowers, all of which expressed wishes for a successful comeback. It was so gracious, so thoughtful of them—but after all, what could anything mean when Nicoli alone remained silent?

Suddenly she stopped. In her hand she held a single long-stemmed rose of purest white. On the tiny square clinging to its thorny stem was the one word "Always."

Sheila's dark eyes took on an added dullness as she recognized Nicoli's bold handwriting, then became glistening with tears. Nicoli—her Nicoli—had not forgotten: the rose was her means of telling her that in her heart their love still bloomed and flourished, as spotless as the waxlike beauty of the flower she held in her hand. Sheila carried the lovely bloom to her dressing table and tenderly placed it in a slender silver vase. It was with a sense of dread and an aching heart that she forced herself to take her eyes from its perfect beauty.

As she slowly removed her make-up her thoughts drifted back to the opening night of The Woman Alone. How different it had been! She and her beloved Nicoli had escaped to the blessed privacy of their rooms; there they had dined alone in their happiness, and later, close in each other's arms, had quite forgotten the play and its success.

The evening with Allison and his friends was a tiring one. Try as she might, it was impossible to shake off the spell cast upon her heart by Nicoli's one word "Always." All of the sorrow and longing returned a thousand-fold as the host of memories came thronging back, all of the desire to forsake everything and rush to her side.

As if because of it, Allison had been even more affectionate than usual, holding her in his arms at every opportunity, telling her when they danced how he wanted and needed her. Sheila knew as she talked with him that he was not himself. His eyes were dark with the influence of the drug that daily tightened its grip upon him. As she looked at the deepening lines in his face and the fast graying hair, she knew that she could never leave him who would so shortly need her care. When that day came she would not shirk her responsibility to the man who had loved her and helped her by his weakness to justify her own existence—for without someone to live for, Sheila knew she would never have had the courage necessary to go on.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, as Sheila went about her work at the theater, it became more and more apparent to her that a drastic change was coming over Allison. He was no longer surrounding himself with people, but would sit alone in their rooms during the hours of her absence, seeming to prefer solitude and remaining apart even from herself. For hours he would lie in his room resenting any attempt at conversation. Sheila tried desperately to broach the subject to him striving to find a way in which to tell him that she knew an stood willing and waiting to assist him in fighting the consuming narcotic in whose throes he was so tightly held. She asked him what it was that caused him to be so unlike his former self, and Allison flew into a rage and ordered her to leave him alone—once and for all to cease her solicitous attitude toward him. Was he not capable of caring for himself without any interference from her? Nevertheless Sheila's heart was heavy with the knowledge of the work of destruction going on apace in Allison's body.

Her work became less and less that of a great artist, until critics began to speculate as to the reason for the deterioration of this once vital woman; and even the public that knew and loved her so well was compelled to admit that Sheila Case was through.

It was in the last week of the play's run that Sheila, returning from the theater, found Allison in a drugged coma from which she could not awaken him. Frantically she called Dr. Harkness her physician and old friend.

* * *

Freeman Harkness, specialist in nervous and mental disorders, took Sheila's cold hands in his own.

"You will have to know the facts, and the kindest thing I can do is tell you bluntly, now. There is not a great deal of hope. I cannot say that Mr. Graham will not recover—none of us can make such a statement authoritatively. But his condition is very grave. This drug he has been using has been undermining his health for years. It works slowly, but it has a most tenacious hold, one which is almost impossible to break The effect on his heart is the one big thing we have to fear now; it has been carrying a heavy load, and it is cracking under the strain. We shall have to take him off the drug entirely. Perhaps you have an idea what that means? It mean that you will have to watch him constantly, for he will try to take his life when those tortured nerves demand relief—and there can be no relief. He will have to fight it out—not so easy as it sounds. He will be quarrelsome, abusive, noisy, morose; you will have your days and nights of horror just as he will have his. If you can get away, Miss Case, I'd suggest that you take him into the country. There he will have fewer opportunities to do harm. The quiet might prove beneficial to his nerves, and there will be less possibility of embarrassment for you both. I'll send you a competent nurse who understands thoroughly the care and treatment of such cases, and I advise that you take him away just as soon as you can arrange to leave."

Sheila was not surprised at the doctor's pronouncement; it was rather what she had expected, but the sudden finality of it was crushing.

"Do you suppose I can take him far enough away so that he can't manage to get hold of a supply of the drug, doctor? I do know that drug addicts are notoriously clever at finding a way."

"That is one point in favor of taking him away quickly, without his being told in advance. Give him time to make no arrangements—and this rare drug will not be found outside the larger cities. I'll give you a card to a rental agent who will know just the sort of place for you."

"Then I will see him today. I want to go just as quickly as I can get away. You are sending the nurse tonight?"

"First thing in the morning. I'll make him comfortable for the night and will send in such medicine as you might need when I go out. I shall look in again in the morning. You very probably won't need me before then. Good night, Miss Case. I'm sorry about this."

The following morning Sheila was awakened from her troubled sleep by a light knock on the door of their suite. Hastily donning the silken negligee that hung over the foot of her bed, she slipped quietly from the room, silently closing the door behind her lest her voice awaken Allison who lay so pale and still sleeping.

Crossing to the door, she opened it slightly. A tall slender woman stood on the other side, wearing a severely tailored blue coat and close fitting hat. Her eyes met Sheila's as with a smile she said, "Doctor Harkness sent me—I am Jo Trent."

Sheila stood aside and in a hushed voice said, "Please come in. I have been expecting you. However, Mr. Graham is still sleeping."

Sheila's eyes followed Jo Trent as she removed the dark wrap, revealing the white uniform of her profession.

Placing her things over a chair, the nurse turned to Sheila, her gaze studying her intently.

"You need rest, or I shall have two patients," the deep voice told her.

At the sound of her voice Sheila started; then turning, she scrutinized its owner closely. Was there something about her that recalled Nicoli? True, her hair was not unlike Nicoli's closely cropped head-but wasn't there something else about Jo Trent that brought the woman she loved to her mind? Yes—but what was that elusive something?...

* * *

Jo Trent quietly and unobtrusively took over the care of Allison and a few days later, when Sheila’s play closed, found her accompanying them to the house Sheila had rented in the heart of the New England countryside.

PART FOUR

The Alden Place

Do you think he has a chance?" Sheila whispered to Jo Trent as the nurse's firm, capable hands guided the car along the winding road.

Allison, sitting alone in the tonneau of the car, was dozing, apparently at ease.

"He has, Miss Case, provided we watch him carefully at all times. As Doctor Harkness perhaps told you, in cases of this sort patients become desperate when denied the drug they are in the habit of taking. At such times they are apt to attempt to take their lives. However, you have nothing to fear from that score, for I promise you he will not have the opportunity."

Sheila looked at the strong features of the woman beside her—the determination of her chin—and somehow knew that Jo Trent would keep her word. Already she was beginning to depend on her, to feel that at last she had someone whom she could trust with her troubles. It was good to have a woman around her again to whom she could talk—for Sheila had made no close woman friends with whom she felt free to talk, or to lapse into silence as she saw fit. Only a few days had shown her that Jo Trent had a peculiar insight into her moods. She seemed to know the innermost workings of her mind—to know absolutely when Sheila wished to be alone and when she wished for companionship.

Sheila continued to study the nurse's face as they drove along. She was attractive, remarkably so, in a boyish sort of way. The breeze blew her short curly hair about, making her look like an urchin with a tousled head. Her severe dark suit with blouse open at the throat further enhanced the illusion of boyishness. When she spoke, even her voice was in keeping with her appearance, its low throaty quality making it soothing to Sheila's ears.

Allison scarcely spoke, although Jo and Sheila chatted most of the way. Sheila was surprised to learn that Jo had seen several of her performances in The Woman Alone, as well as a few of the play in which she had just appeared. She asked Jo why she had seen the same show several times, but Jo, instead of answering her question, simply said, "It is getting colder, and you should have something around your shoulders; remember, you must keep well if we are to win the fight we have ahead."

Sheila thanked her for the proffered wrap, and snuggling up in its warmth, tipped her lovely head back on the cushions.

The sun was low on the horizon when Jo roused her. "We are nearly there, Miss Case, only about a mile or two beyond here, I'd say."

Sheila straightened up, and looking about, answered drowsily, "Yes, it can't be over that. I see we have left the main road, so this lane we are on must lead directly to the house. I dare say Mrs. Mason will be waiting for us. You know I talked with her yesterday and told her we would arrive late this afternoon."

"You were fortunate in getting her, don't you think?" questioned Jo. "From what you tell me, she is just the sort of housekeeper you will need."

"Yes, I think so, too. It seems that Mrs. Mason is part of the old family tradition. She has lived with the Aldens since Mrs. Alden came to the county as a bride. The rental agent gave me an interesting sketch of the family—comfortably wealthy, educated, county aristocrats—you know, the solid kind of people who make the backbone of New England. Mrs. Alden adored her husband and her one son. But she lost them both in an influenza epidemic, and for years she lived up here with just Mrs. Mason and her memories. But this winter she agreed to travel with a niece just recently widowed, and she decided to rent the house on condition that Mrs. Mason would stay on. It's a lovely old colonial house, he said—white with blue-green shutters—you know the type: the kind of house that seems to invite you to live, and to lend grace to living."

"How interesting! I've never lived in a house with an atmosphere. I have always been an apartment dweller, and so far all my cases have been in the city. I'm glad for you that you have found such an ideal place—and I'm glad for myself that I'm to share it with you. It won't be so lonesome these late winter days. There will be big open fireplaces, won't there, and huge logs from our own woods?" Jo chattered animatedly, both from real interest and from a desire to raise Sheila's spirits. Sheila responded to Jo's enthusiasm: "It almost succeeds in taking the curse off our banishment—I do love an open fire. Oh, here we are!"

The gracious dignity of the old white house was visible through the trees, their gnarled branches casting grayish shadows on its snowy walls, while the last rays of the setting sun lightly brushed its roof with warm tones of crimson and gold.

Sheila turned, her eyes coming to rest on Allison’s sleeping form, looking so pale and weak, then with a sigh of regret for having to waken him, she said softly, “Allison, dear, we are home.”

As Allison slowly roused himself, Jo turned the car into the curving gravelled driveway and, bringing it to a standstill, blew the horn.

A black and white setter asleep beside the door barked a warning; he jumped to his feet and scampered down the path to investigate the strangers whose arrival had so rudely disturbed his nap. His eyes were large and friendly. He stood for a moment gazing inquiringly at the occupants of the car. Who were these people who dared to enter his domain? His alert ears caught the sound of an opening door; quickly he bounded back along the driveway to meet the woman who had just emerged and inform her of the newcomers' presence.

Her voice was kindly when she spoke to the dog, who leaped up on her as she hurried to meet her new employers. "Down, Ring! It's all right."

Apparently assured that everything was quite in order, the setter followed her toward the car, his plumy tail wagging a belated welcome.

Mrs. Mason was an ample, motherly looking woman, with a genial smile. Her greeting was simple, warm and friendly.

"I'm Mrs. Mason. I am so glad you have arrived safely, and before dark. I was beginning to worry; I thought perhaps you had missed the turn at the end of the lane."

Sheila alighted from the car, and crossing in front of it, extended her hand to the friendly woman before her.

"I'm Sheila Case, Mrs. Mason." Turning toward the car, "Mr. Graham; Miss Trent."

Mrs. Mason acknowledged the introduction with the simplicity of the sincere country woman who loves humanity. Then she opened the back door of the car, and taking Allison's arm, gently helped him to the ground, saying to Jo, "I'll help you get Mr. Graham comfortably settled, then I'll come back for the luggage."

Jo started toward the house, then turned and said to Sheila, "You'd better go to your room, Miss Case; you need rest after this trip—you look tired."

Sheila opened her bag and extracted her cigarette case. "I'll smoke a cigarette, then I'll come in." Jo disappeared into the house. Only Ring remained. His soft brown eyes scrutinized the lovely sad face. Coming closer, he laid his cold moist nose against Sheila's slender hand. Yes, he would be friends with this strange quiet girl. Absent-mindedly her fingers stroked the silky hair of the setter's splendid head, while her thoughts went back.

The last days in town had been trying ones. Work at the theater, worry about Allison's failing health, the thoughts of Nicoli which had persisted in haunting her brain no matter how repeatedly she told herself she must not dwell upon that subject again—all had combined to wear both mental and physical resistance to a very thin edge.

It had been difficult to leave New York, not knowing when she might return, for even though she had not seen Nicoli there had been a degree of satisfaction in knowing that she was near. Now, as the struggle for Allison's life faced her, she was frankly weary. Months stretched before her, filled with anxiety for his recovery, filled with hours of enforced idleness in which thoughts would flourish as weeds in fertile soil.

Sheila walked slowly toward the door of the house, closely followed by her new friend. It really was a lovely old place, serene and peaceful, to which clung the atmosphere of much full living, of gracious family life, an atmosphere conducive to a feeling of being deeply rooted—the sort of surroundings which Allison should have in his present condition. Yes, it would be quite comfortable in every way, Sheila decided. It would be comfortable if only she could enter that door and leave all clamoring thoughts behind. Blessed door, that could shut out the griefs of the mind!

Jo Trent met her in the entry. "I was just coming to see where my other patient had vanished to. I believe I prescribed bed and rest for you, Miss Case, didn't I?"

Sheila smiled. "I believe you did. I was just about to follow your instructions. I am tired, painfully so. The strain of the past week is telling on me. You have no idea how difficult it has been to try to give good performances with always the thought of Allison's condition in my mind—never knowing what I would find when I came home."

"I do understand, Miss Case," Jo said sympathetically as she slipped her arm around Sheila's waist and gently guided her toward the staircase. "But it is all over now, and Mr. Graham is in my hands. He seems to be quiet after the trip and perfectly content to sleep awhile. His room is ideal for him, and he is comfortably settled, so you need not worry. When he awakens, I'll be in the next room if he should need anything." Sheila's heart felt lighter than it had for some time as she walked upstairs to the room that was to be her own. It was good to be able to shift the responsibility of Allison's care on Jo's sturdy shoulders. Somehow she felt as if Jo were destined to fill a still greater need—the need for an understanding friend, one who could comprehend the loneliness in her heart and to an extent alleviate it.

Sheila's room was a wide, high-ceiled one, furnished with fine early American pieces, their patina a shining testimony to the years of care at the hands of their beauty-loving owners, the lustrous walnut a charming setting for Sheila's exquisite fairness. Now, as she slowly disrobed she found herself thinking of how Nicoli would have reveled in its old-fashioned beauty. How different things would be if she were here! Sheila's thoughts were interrupted by a light knock.

"Who is it?" she called quickly, fearing that perhaps Allison had become suddenly worse.

"Jo Trent, Miss Case. May I come in?"

"Of course, Miss Trent," answered Sheila, opening the door in welcome.

On the threshold stood Jo, a steaming cup in hand. "I took the liberty of bringing you some tea. Mrs. Mason will bring your dinner tray shortly, but I think it will be good for you to drink this now."

"Thank you, Jo; you're a darling," said Sheila warmly as she took the proffered cup; and walking over to a big chintz-covered chair, she sat down and started to drink the soothing beverage.

Jo turned at the door. "If you need me, Miss Case, I'll be in the room next to Mr. Graham's. Just call—any time. I do hope you rest well—and remember, no worrying! That's what I'm here for."

Life in the house where Allison was to wage his battle against the ravishing effects of the powerful drug had really begun.

Sheila slept late the following morning, and it was not until Mrs. Mason's kindly voice awakened her that she opened her eyes, to find her standing beside the bed with her breakfast tray. She had opened the curtains which Sheila had partially drawn the night before, and the sunlight drifted in, warming the room with its glow. Spring, which had hardly made itself manifest in the city, was perceptibly quickening and stirring in the deep woods outside, although snow was still gleaming in patches which the sun had not yet caught.

Sheila ran her long fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her forehead. Looking at Mrs. Mason, she laughingly said, "I did sleep—it must be frightfully late, but I do feel better. I was dead tired last night."

"Well, now you'll feel fit as a fiddle, as soon as you've eaten your breakfast and had your bath," the housekeeper said, her face expressing motherly tenderness for the young woman before her.

Sheila leisurely finished her breakfast; then slipping into a becoming morning frock, she crossed the hall to Allison's room, where she found him propped up in bed drinking his coffee, while Jo sat in a chair nearby.

She smiled and nodded to Jo as she entered. Then, walking over to the bed, she gently placed her hands on Allison's colorless face and kissed him. "Good morning, darling! Did you rest well?"

Allison gripped her wrist fiercely, and with an angry gesture pushed her away.

"Look here, Sheila," he cried in a tone entirely new; "simply because I've been unable to help myself is no reason for your taking advantage of the fact and bringing me up here. I don't need your help, or any damned nurse to look after me, and regardless of anything or anybody I am going back to New York. I am sick and tired of you and your interference—do you hear? Tired of it! Now get out and stay out."

With lips trembling, Sheila left the room. There was no doubt in her mind that the trapped animal in Allison's body was beginning to bare its teeth.

When Sheila left the room, she walked thoughtfully downstairs and out of the house. Mechanically she lighted a cigarette, then strolled out of the gate and into the woods beyond. Ring, upon seeing her approach, rose, stretched lazily, and followed.

The woods were beautiful at this season, when winter slowly retreated before spring. It was Nature's seed time and everywhere were signs of the new life to come. The maples were spreading their tiny green wings, and the willows were whispering in glee to the brook as they trailed green fingers in the sun-dappled water. Somewhere close at hand the liquid tones of a bird proclaimed his welcome to the new season, his lilting song breaking through the stillness of the morning. Occasionally a gentle breeze caressed the bud-laden boughs of the majestic trees, causing them to stir as in delicate ecstasy.

It was under one of the broad maples that Jo found Sheila an hour later, crying bitterly. She dropped to the ground beside her, and gently folded her into her arms, stroking Sheila's blonde head as it lay on her shoulder.

All of the sorrow and worry over Nicoli and Allison had finally broken and crushed the once indomitable spirit of Sheila Case. Jo thought how like a child she was as she lay in her arms sobbing out, in a voice filled with the longing of the empty years, all of the loneliness of her heart... telling Jo how she longed to go away, yet knowing that she could not desert Allison even though he thought he no longer wanted her. Some day she would be released... but until that time came, she could not, would not, shirk the responsibility nor fail to pay the debt she felt she owed him.

"Don't you see, Jo, I can't leave him now? He needs me. He has no one but me. If I were to go now, I would hate myself always for having left him, perhaps to die. There can be no happiness founded on the pain and heartaches of others. No, Jo—I am tied, as securely as if I were behind prison bars. This is my life for the present, and here I must live it."

"I understand perfectly how you feel, but there aren't many women who would stay on when the person in question had given them the opportunity to leave. Your decision is simply another proof of the character that makes you so... unusual a woman ... so splendid."

Sheila loosed herself from Jo's encircling arms and leaning back against the tree, looked steadfastly at her companion.

"Your faith in me gives me strength to go on, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it, how much it means to me to have you to talk to. I've been so alone, Jo—so pitifully alone, in a world filled with people."

"I know, Sheila,"—the name flowed from Jo's lips unconsciously—"I know only too well. You see, I've been lonely, too, tremendously so."

The uncharacteristic emotion in the nurse's voice caused Sheila to wonder what the deep soul of the woman beside her could reveal. What hidden longings were there in its innermost recesses? Then like a flash of light came the answer. Jo, like herself, belonged to another world; that was the reason she had felt close to her from their first meeting, had somehow felt that their minds were attuned one to the other—that was the reason Jo knew her heart and its sufferings so well. Fate had been good, for it had sent her a soul like unto her own to help her in the trying days to come.

"Jo, is it because your heart has known the same love that you seem to understand mine so perfectly?" Sheila asked the question hesitantly.

"Yes, it is. I've known for years of your great love for Nicoli, and when you left her and disappeared I guessed the reason. When you came back and I saw you again on the stage I saw the results of the battle I felt sure you had been fighting in your heart while you were away. That is why, when Dr. Harkness needed a nurse on this case, I felt that God in His strange workings had brought it to my knowledge, and I asked to be sent to you."

"Then that is why from the moment of your coming I felt no longer alone. Somehow, I knew you understood, even though outwardly things appeared so... different."

Together they walked back to the house, Sheila's heart lighter for the knowledge that beside her walked another woman who, like herself again, was one of the alien threads of Life's pattern.

In the days that followed, Sheila had little opportunity for conversation alone with Jo. Allison's condition now demanded the nurse's almost constant attention. The nerves that cried for the stimulant to which they had become so accustomed had broken under the strain.

Allison lay weak and exhausted except when, galvanized by his maddened brain, he fought to leave the place he hated. At such times Sheila could hear his voice raised in unreasoning anger—later his agonized pleas to Jo to give him the relief he craved. Sheila tried to comfort him, but always he vented upon her all of the fury that possessed him, cursing her for having brought him there, vowing to escape. The nurse redoubled her vigilance when he gave indication of one of these violent moods, warning Sheila against entering his room and calling on Mrs. Mason whenever she found it necessary to leave him.

As time went on it became apparent to Jo that all of the love in Allison's heart for Sheila was slowly turning to hatred. He blamed her alone for his isolation, telling Jo that he would some day make her pay for his suffering. Jo tried to reason with him, telling him that it was better so—that had he been allowed to go on he would not be alive; telling him that soon he would be well again, and then would thank Sheila for what she had done. Yet in her heart she knew that even though the struggle with the drug might end, the fight to save the remnants of his health had only begun.

These were lonely days for Sheila—days when, reading or lounging in her room, her thoughts turned back to Nicoli. Why should she go on without Nicoli? Why not defy the world and its stupid conventions and take their happiness while there was yet time? Then the doubts that crushed her heart would creep in and she would wonder if Nicoli still remembered and wanted her. Perhaps she had successfully placed her out of her life, had found that Sheila was not necessary to her after all.

Unless she wrote Nicoli, there could be no answer to her questions, and write her she dared not, tied as she was to Allison. Perhaps Nicoli knew of him and believed she no longer cared. When thoughts like these crowded her mind, Sheila would close her eyes and pray that somehow Nicoli would know that their love was not dead, but alive and blooming in her arid heart, watered by the many tears she shed crying out for it.

Daily Sheila grew more and more morose, walking for hours in the woods nearby, losing all track of time, until Jo, anxious for her safety, would send Mrs. Mason to find her. She was like a drowning swimmer as she fought the tide of desolation that engulfed her.

After weeks of watching Sheila's listlessness, Jo made a decision. Unless something could be done, Sheila was going to be ill. She must have someone with whom to spend her time, someone who understood her.

After dinner, Jo, rising from the table, proposed: "Let's walk outside for a breath of air and a cigarette while Mrs. Mason is with Mr. Graham."

Sheila smiled agreement, and stopping only to pick up her inevitable cigarettes from a small table in the hall, followed Jo outside.

"It is beautiful tonight, Jo, isn't it? So quiet and peaceful—and the sky is simply glorious with its millions of stars. I wish you didn't have to go back inside. I'd love to walk for miles—it’s heavenly!"

"Sheila, I've been watching you steadily for weeks now, walking about not caring whether you lived or died. Something has to be done about it—you can't be allowed to go on in such fashion."

"What difference does it make, Jo?" countered Sheila with a shrug. "Suppose I were to die; who is there to care deeply if I am gone?"

Jo put out her hands and taking Sheila firmly by the shoulders said in her deep voice, "I would, Sheila. I've loved you since the first time I saw you—in The Woman Alone. You asked me once why I saw it so often. Well, now I can tell you: because your face haunted me and your voice made me remember all of the things I had tried so long to forget. Oh, Sheila—can't we go on together? I too am so alone. Don't we need each other in order to... live?"

Without answering, Sheila folded Jo in her arms and kissed her, then lifting her eyes, she looked up at Jo's face which was dimly visible in the starlight.

"You know how I love Nicoli, Jo. Can you accept what I have to offer?"

"Yes! Anything... so long as I can be with you—to love and care for you, to watch over you when you need me."

"I've been so alone, so horribly alone. If only I had you, Jo, to spend these long days driving with me, or roaming through the country around us! Don't you think we might bring another nurse up for Allison so that you could have more time?"

"Frankly, Sheila, I am glad you mentioned Mr. Graham, for I believe I should tell you what I have been forced to admit to myself," Jo replied.

"What is it, Jo? Is he worse?"

"As far as the drug is concerned, no. I honestly feel that in these weeks we have beaten its hold on him, but dear Sheila, you must be brave—I am afraid that it has had a devastating effect not only on his body but on his mind as well. I haven't wanted to tell you until I was sure, but now I am sure. Sheila, he's losing his sanity."

"No—no! Not that, Jo! Surely you're mistaken," cried Sheila as she clung to the girl beside her. "That can't be—it just can't be!"

"I am not mistaken, darling. I've seen too many cases of this sort to fail entirely in my judgment. You see, the strain on both mind and body has been too much for him, and he has slipped over the tiny barrier that separates sanity from insanity."

"We must have a specialist come up at once, Jo. I must know for a certainty. Oh, it's too awful," sobbed Sheila. "Poor dear Allison!"

"At times," Jo continued, "he is like a baby—so easy to control; then come tempestuous moments when I can scarcely handle him, and now with his returning strength it will be impossible for me to do it. He seems always at such times to vent his emotions on you for bringing him up here, and I am afraid for you. I am sure the doctor will agree with me that he must either have a male attendant or be sent to a... sanitarium. You must be protected," Jo finished, determination crowding her voice.

"Surely you don't think Allison capable of harming me— do you ?"

"No, not Allison as you know him. But I can't say what he would do under present conditions, and I couldn't bear anything to happen to you, loving you as I do." Jo's fingers caressed Sheila's hair; then lifting her face, she kissed the lovely full mouth.

Sheila refused to consider sending Allison away as long as there was the faintest doubt about his mental condition being temporary. After consultation, Doctor Harkness and the alienist both agreed that he might be allowed to remain there at least for a while, under the care of a man who would be sent up immediately from New York. There was a chance that Allison might improve, but they advised Sheila not to see him, as the sight of her under existing circumstances might retard his recovery, by causing him to become excited at the reminder of his grievance against her.

Later Doctor Harkness took Jo aside and told her, "I consider it extremely unsafe for Miss Case to be left alone at any time with Mr. Graham. Please see that this does not happen." Jo promised.

Time went slowly on, and the household settled into its new routine with Allison skillfully cared for by Randall, his new attendant, leaving Jo free to be with Sheila.

Spring blossomed into a perfect New England summer, and with it came a slight change in Allison. Apparently he was growing more gentle, and the whole household felt an ease in the tension. But Randall still had almost the entire care of the patient; he and Jo Trent were both far too experienced to relax vigilance lightly.

It had been a beautiful spring for Jo. All day every day she had spent with Sheila, loving her more as time passed— holding her in her arms at night telling her of the wealth of affection in her heart for her—kissing her soft lips gently, then fiercely. Yet as she held Sheila close, Jo Trent, opportunist that she was forcing herself to be, was ever conscious of the ghost between them: nothing could erase the memory of Nicoli that she knew lived always in Sheila's heart, Sheila's mind. Sometimes at night Jo would slip quietly from her bed, and going downstairs would carefully open the outer door and walk out into the night, her bewildered mind not knowing where to turn for surcease from the anguish of loving Sheila so completely. It was heartbreaking to accept her surrender, knowing that all of her soul cried out for Nicoli—yet how to govern her own desires that wanted Sheila at any price? Constantly Jo searched for the answer—deciding always that she could not give up Sheila so long as she granted her even a portion of her love.

The days were more or less happy ones for them all in spite of the hushed room upstairs where Allison lay.

One night on her way upstairs Sheila was surprised to see his door open. As she passed along the hall, Randall stepped out into the corridor: "Miss Case, Mr. Graham has been asking for you for the first time since I have been with him. It might be well for you to see him."

Sheila was taken aback by the man's statement, but she answered immediately, "I'm so glad! Of course I'll go in."

Sheila walked across the room to Allison's bedside, and in a gentle voice said, "Allison, darling, I'm so glad you wanted me."

She seated herself beside him and talked for a few moments. He was calm and gentle, like the man he had been when she had first met him. Her spirits rose as she looked upon him. But Randall voicelessly warned her against remaining too long, and she left with Allison pleading for her to stay on, imploring her to come in again in the morning.

Sheila sought Jo to tell her of the remarkable change in Allison: how like himself he seemed and how he had told her he loved her and never wanted her to leave him. Jo's face clouded during her recital of her visit with Allison and his reaction; but Sheila, radiant over the apparent improvement, failed to notice it. Jo was afraid. Was the man really better, or was this sudden interest in Sheila the result of a deranged mind that in its cunning way planned to do her harm ? Somehow she could not make herself believe that things were really as they now appeared.

The next morning Sheila was up early, humming as she went about the room dressing, or sitting at her dressing table brushed her hair and arranged its soft waves becomingly about her radiant face. Jo, as she came into the room, thought she had never seen Sheila more lovely.

"Is Allison awake yet?" Sheila questioned. "I promised him I'd come in and have breakfast with him this morning. Oh, Jo, it's wonderful to see him so like himself again! I'm so thankful."

"I believe I heard his voice as I passed the door," Jo replied. "I shall miss you at breakfast, but I am happy for your sake. To see you so gloriously alive is worth anything, Sheila, and you do look wonderful this morning. You slept like a baby last night—I don't believe you even knew when I kissed you good night."

Sheila rose, and crossing to Jo, said, "But I do know you haven't kissed me good morning!"

Jo's arms closed about the slender form, and in a low voice she answered, "We'll remedy that right now."

After a moment Sheila released herself. "I must go now—Allison will be waiting."

Jo flashed a bright smile which she did not feel, and gave Sheila a gentle push toward the door. As Sheila left the room, Jo thought to herself darkly, "I don't like it."

* * *

"I've been awake hours, it seems, waiting for you, dearest," said Allison as he drew Sheila down to him and kissed her.

"You should have sent for me," replied Sheila, as she seated herself in the winged chair beside the bed just as Mrs. Mason entered with their breakfast tray. "I've been awake for an hour."

Allison seemed in fine spirits and talked rapidly, laughingly telling her of all the things they would do together when he was able to be about again.

He looked wonderfully well, Sheila thought, as she studied him sitting back against the pillows eating the food before him. The dark silk dressing gown with white scarf at the throat was exceedingly smart, and reminded her of his usual immaculate attire. The old Allison? There was no doubt in her mind that Allison was really on the road to complete recovery. At the thought of recovery, Sheila suddenly realized that any release she might have thought would come must be definitely cast aside now, for with Allison well again her life would necessarily resume its old road. That would mean giving up Jo! It couldn't be. Jo had grown to mean much to her during the time they had been together, and she knew how Jo in turn loved her. It wasn't right that always she must bring pain into the hearts of people whose lives she entered. Sheila felt ashamed for having for a moment placed her liberty before Allison's recovery and forced herself to talk with him about their future plans. Yes, they would sail for Europe as soon as he was able, she agreed with him... yes, yes, yes, she told herself—face it—that is the way it will have to be.

* * *

Within a week Allison regained strength enough to make it possible for him to go downstairs throughout the day, where he would sit for hours talking to Sheila in the high, walnut-paneled rooms furnished in the fashion of a gentler day; or, joined by Jo and Randall, they would pass the time in a quiet rubber or two of bridge.

He was steadily regaining his former bodily strength, and as the weeks passed and Fall was once more approaching, he was able to walk with Sheila for short distances through the woods close by. Jo, her heart heavy, would watch them pass out of the gate and into the lane beyond, ever conscious of the day when she must lose Sheila. Yet in her mind persisted the thought that Allison was not as he seemed. She had spoken of her feelings to Sheila, but she in turn had laughingly cast the idea aside, saying, "You're morbid, Jo—of course Allison is all right. Why, if anyone could detect a change in him, surely it would be I!"

So Jo kept her fears to herself after this one attempt, but she began to watch Allison more closely than ever, never allowing him to go too far away from the house with Sheila without Randall in attendance—relieved always when she saw their familiar figures returning, as arm in arm they strolled back to the house.

* * *

The trees and shrubs about the Alden place were radiant in their coats of red and brown and gold, and the air was filled with the soft rustle of the drying leaves as they stirred in the first chill winds of the coming winter.

Jo was sitting curled up reading on a lounge before the open fire whose logs crackled cheerily as they gaily burned, when Sheila, dressed in tweed suit and tiny beret, appeared in the doorway.

"Allison and I are going for a walk now, Jo. We shan't be gone long," and with an intimate smile and a promise of "I'll see you later," she was gone.

Jo stared into the fire thoughtfully. Was the air really getting chillier, she asked herself, or was she aware of a strange foreboding in her heart?

Ring stirred from his place on the hearth and whimpered; Jo quieted him gently. He rarely followed these days—instinctively he avoided Allison, sensing, perhaps, the dislike the man felt for him. But now he was restless, his keen senses alert.

Jo's first impulse was to slip into her loose walking coat and follow Allison and Sheila; but telling herself she was being foolish, she settled herself back on the cushions again, picked up her book and resumed reading. She had been sitting there for only a short time when Randall entered the room.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Miss Trent," he began, "but something has happened that, while it may not be important, worries me."

"What is it, Randall?" Jo questioned, springing to her feet and facing him in instant alarm.

"Simply this," Randall continued; "in straightening Mr. Graham's room, I've been unable to find among his things the white scarf he wears mornings with his robe. I remember seeing it on the bed beside his dressing gown just before he left with Miss Case, and I know he did not wear it, as I gave him a light woolen one myself and I remember seeing him place it around his neck. It may not be significant, but just the same... it worries me."

During Randall's recital Jo's face had gradually become pale, all of the color draining out of it as she realized to what a ghastly end that band of cloth might be used. All of her premonitions of something threatening in the air rushed back. She snatched up her coat which lay on a nearby chair and exclaimed commandingly, "We must find them at once! I'm afraid—horribly so."

They rushed hurriedly from the house, calling to Mrs. Mason as they left to stay with Mr. Graham constantly should he and Sheila return before they got back.

Ring, eager for a run, dashed ahead.

Jo's heart was beating wildly as she and Randall, half walking, half running, followed the path Sheila and Allison had taken, the man's serious eyes telling Jo that he too was fearful, perhaps reading her own thoughts as they rushed onward into the woods. Still no sight of Sheila and Allison.

The setter's frantic barks reached their ears—he'd found something.

Suddenly Jo stopped and with a hand that trembled indicated a spot in a small clearing beyond. Then with a cry she ran blindly forward, with Randall close behind her. On the ground lay Sheila, her hat off, her clothes disheveled and torn, and around her slim white neck in a vise-like grip the missing white scarf.

Jo dropped to the ground, taking Sheila's hands in hers and rubbing her wrists briskly, while Randall raised her head gently and quickly untied the knots that bound the scarf.

"Is she alive?" Jo asked frantically as the man listened for Sheila's heart beat.

"Yes, Miss Trent—but we must get her back to the house quickly."

Together they lifted the limp body, and with a hasty glance about them started back through the woods bearing the almost lifeless body of the woman who but a short time ago had been so pulsatingly alive.

Ring followed mournfully at their heels, giving vent to an occasional small, uncertain bark.

Arrived at the gate, Jo called to Mrs. Mason to turn down Sheila's bed and bring restoratives at once.

Carefully they carried her upstairs and placed her on the bed; then Randall ran below to telephone for a doctor while the two women gently undressed the still form.

Randall returned shortly, saying, "Dr. Taylor will be over from town immediately. In the meantime he has given me instructions as to what he wishes done. Also, I called the constable, and he is organizing a search party to look for Mr. Graham."

Through the long hours that followed, Jo worked prayerfully beside the doctor in an attempt to kindle into a reviving flame the few faint sparks of life which were left. At long last her prayers were answered, and Sheila's eyelids fluttered and opened. Then, as if remembering the full horror of the previous hours, she cried out, and sinking back, lapsed again into unconsciousness.

In response to Jo's frantic queries, the doctor replied that she need have no further fears for Sheila's life, but that there was, of course, a serious case of shock to the nervous system from which only time and care would effect recovery. The sedative he had administered would give her rest and temporary forgetfulness.

Jo sat beside the bed, her eyes forever watchful—eyes whose pained expression clearly showed the anguish in Sheila's heart. The long hours passed... seemingly endless hours. Darkness shrouded the world outside... then after what seemed to Jo an eternity of waiting, the blackness began to fade. Gray dawn silvered the woods beyond the house; the pale glow of the rising sun brought a flush to the heavens, and the first melodious notes of a waking bird broke the enveloping stillness.

Jo stirred in her chair. Yes, Sheila was apparently resting quietly. The door of the room opened. Randall entered, his footsteps light as he came toward her.

"Mrs. Mason has some coffee for you," he whispered. "I'll stay with Miss Case."

"Thanks, Randall, you're kind, but I think I'll stay—you see, she might waken." Weariness marked the words. Randall insisted. "You'd better go, really. She'll be all right—if she does wake up, I'll call you."

Unwillingly Jo left the room and started downstairs. Mrs. Mason met her. "Come along now, Miss Trent. I have some hot breakfast waiting for you. A good cup of hot coffee will make you feel better."

Jo followed the motherly woman without protest to the table prepared for her. Mrs. Mason busied herself bringing steaming dishes to her, and wearily Jo forced herself to eat. What could anything mean, she pondered, when Sheila lay so white and still in the room above? What promise could life have held if she had been taken away—if she were taken away? Jo shuddered at the morbid thought.

"Is Miss Case still sleeping?" the housekeeper inquired.

Jo raised her head to look into the woman's sympathetic face. "Yes—she's quiet. The sedative Dr. Taylor gave her will give her some rest for at least—"

The shrilling of the telephone bell interrupted. Quickly the housekeeper turned to answer it.

"That was the constable," she informed Jo. "He wanted to let us know that they found Mr. Graham."

"Where?"

"He said they located him miles away from here!"

"I'm so glad they did find him," breathed Jo. "I was so afraid... he might come back. What did they do with him? Did he say?"

"Yes. They took him into town, and he said they were going to send him to the state asylum today. I guess they'll keep him there until Miss Case is able to tell them what she wants done." Mrs. Mason sighed deeply. "Poor Mr. Graham—it's a pity. He must have been such a nice man before all this happened. They say he was like a wild animal when they caught him—took two or three men to handle him."

Jo nodded. "I guess it did. His mind is completely gone now; there isn't any doubt about that."

The nurse visualized the scene that must have taken place: Allison must have been in a wildly exultant frame of mind over what he evidently thought was Sheila's death. His eyes had probably been ablaze with the fulfillment of his vengeance. In a word, he had been like an untamed beast after the kill. She shook off the horrible thoughts. She must get back to Sheila.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she started upstairs. At least she would have to live no longer in daily fear for Sheila's life. Allison would shortly be where his deranged mind could never again cause him to make an attempt upon the life of the one person who meant everything to her. At last Sheila's ties were broken and she was free. A sadness came into her eyes as she realized what that freedom might cost herself, but at least for a time Sheila needed her love and care to nurse her back to health. Seizing on this thought for the small comfort it contained, she continued on up the stairs and into Sheila's room.

Randall nodded assurance as she entered, then he tiptoed out. Quietly seated beside the bed Jo waited for the first sign of Sheila's awakening. Some few hours later the sleeping form stirred and a soft murmur came from the pale lips: "Nicoli—Nicoli."

Jo rose and touching the face of the semi-conscious sleeper said tenderly, "Yes, darling—I am here."

Sheila's lips parted in a faint smile and then relaxing were still once more.

Jo's heart was leaden as she kept her vigil. It was like the thrust of a knife penetrating her heart to hear the woman she so idolized calling for another—one whose place in her heart Jo knew that she could never hope to fill. All of her love and devotion could not make Sheila forget Nicoli. Even now in her troubled sleep she repeated her name over and over Jo wept silently as she listened to the beloved voice.

In the days that followed she was to hear her calling Nicoli repeatedly as she tossed and turned in the throes of delirium Sheila's nerves were shattered as a result of the terrific shod she had sustained, and mindful of the doctor's warning that she should be soothed and comforted in every way possible Jo continued to be Nicoli to Sheila, holding her in her arms; when she pleaded to be close to her and listening to all of the outpourings of her love for Nicoli. As she held Sheila to her heart comforting her, Jo's eyes would become suffused with unshed tears, yet she endeavored bravely to endure the pain these moments cost her.

Weeks slowly passed and Sheila, no longer delirious, now ceased to call for Nicoli, but in her eyes was ever the racking cry that her lips failed to utter. Jo, eternally watchful, saw that suffering in those eyes and wondered desperately how to alleviate it. The answer was ever the same—only Nicoli's presence could erase the expression that daily, hourly haunted her.

Slowly the winter came upon them, covering the surrounding country with its goodly blanket of snow: nature at rest under her snowy coverlets. The trees that had stood so jubilant in their brilliant autumn raiment were now ghostlike in their shrouds of white, ghosts that seemed alive only when the sun lay upon their ice-laden branches causing them to glisten under its rays. Winter descended upon the strange household just as it had fallen upon Jo's heart. Each day told her that she could not go on keeping Sheila away from the one who was the very fountainhead of her well-being; she must somehow bring them together again, even though it would mean committing her own soul to eternal Winter.

For many days there had been growing in her mind the conviction that without Nicoli, Sheila would not recover, nor even try. Life for Sheila at the present seemed something to be cast aside as one might throw off a cloak that had become too heavy—the will to live was flagging fast.

At last, one evening after dinner Jo asked Mrs. Mason to remain with Sheila until her return; then taking the car from the garage she drove into the neighboring town to telephone Nicoli, fearful of doing so at home lest Sheila might hear her.

As she drove, her thoughts dwelt on what her course of action that night would mean to her. Never again would she ride over the countryside with Sheila beside her. Never again would she wake to find her loveliness in her arms... never... never.

The pressure of her foot against the accelerator increased. She must go faster—there must be no time to think—no opportunity to weaken—faster—faster.

* * *

While Jo stood in the dingy telephone office waiting the completion of her call she struggled with herself not to obey the impulse strong within her to cancel the call and go home and keep that which she loved. For in her heart she was certain that Nicoli would come, and with her coming would vanish her last shred of happiness. Yet—how to forget Sheila's sad eyes and the longing in them?

The voice of the operator sitting at the small switchboard roused her. "I'm ready with your call to New York, Miss Trent."

Jo's mind was newly torn by conflicting thoughts as she ' entered the dark booth. When a few minutes later she emerged, Nicoli's voice was still ringing in her ears, her words pounding in her brain, for Nicoli, when Jo had told her the reason for her call, had said simply, "I'm coming at once."

As Jo drove homeward she tried again to comfort herself, this time with the thought that she had done the one thing which would bring brightness into Sheila's darkened life; but this time there was no grain of comfort to be derived: she had with finality excluded herself from Sheila's life.

How could she bear to give her up, even though she had always known she could never hope to possess all of her love?

How could she bear the look she knew would come into Sheila's dull eyes when she beheld Nicoli ?

That night Jo sat for hours by the side of Sheila's bed making repeated attempts at conversation, trying to rouse her from the apathy which had succeeded weeks of delirium. But Sheila was unresponsive, her sad eyes looking beyond Jo as if to find the one they wished to gaze upon, a face so limned on her mind in hours of delusion that the return of reason could not erase the memory. For Jo those still hours were the death watch of her happiness. Tomorrow the first light of the sun would probably find Nicoli there—for surely she had started at once and driven all night. Tomorrow Sheila would be out of her arms forever, her nearness lost to her always, her kisses only a fragrant memory.

The sun had been up for barely an hour when Jo's listening ears heard the approach of a car in their unfrequented lane, the dying of the motor as it reached the gate, and Ring's sharp bark. Hastily she went downstairs, fearful that Nicoli's voice would awaken Sheila, and reached the door just as Mrs. Mason admitted her, saying "I'll call Miss Trent."

Jo walked quickly to her side. "Nicoli, I'm Jo Trent. It was I who called you last evening. You made splendid time, but I know you must be exhausted. Come—let me take your things and we can sit by the fire and talk until Sheila wakes. We will have breakfast here while we are waiting."

Jo led the way into the cozy living room. Nicoli removed her wraps and handing them to Jo, walked slowly toward the open fire. Turning, she said in a voice unsteady with emotion, "It was so good of you to call me. You see, I might never have known if you hadn't. When Sheila's show closed in New York I lost all track of her. Tell me, Miss Trent—how did you know about me?"

Jo's hand trembled as she endeavored to light the cigarette she held; trying desperately to control her voice she looked into Nicoli's questioning eyes and replied, "Sheila told me about you, Nicoli, and what you mean to her. You see... I understand." Then reaching out and laying her hand upon Nicoli's she continued, "She needs you, Nicoli—without you she has no desire to live. Please don't ever let her leave you again. You can't; you mustn't!"

"I shan't ever let her go!" Nicoli's words fell upon Jo's heart with the precision of a knife thrust.

They were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Mason bearing a large steaming tray which she placed on a low coffee table before the fire. During breakfast Jo told Nicoli what had occurred—going, back to the time when Sheila had first left Nicoli, telling her why she had linked her life with that of Allison Graham, and omitting nothing except her own great love for Sheila.

Nicoli's thoughts flew back to that first evening in the theater after Sheila's return—her mental questioning as to the change she found in Sheila—and here she found her answer.

At the mention of Allison's capture, Nicoli anxiously inquired, "Has he been safely confined, do you know? There isn't any doubt, or any danger that he is at large?"

"No, he is in the state asylum, I am sure," Jo reassured her. "There is a letter here for Sheila now from the state authorities—we have nothing to fear on that score."

They fell into a moment of quiet musing from which they were called by the re-entrance of Mrs. Mason.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Trent, but Miss Case is awake and asking for you."

Jo turned to Nicoli, gazed briefly into her anxious deep gray eyes, and in a low tone said, "I'll take you to her at once."

Leading the way up the broad white staircase, Jo's body seemed to droop noticeably with the weight of the sorrow upon her heart. At Sheila's door she paused, halted by the grim thought, "When you open this door to Nicoli, you close it to yourself." There was nothing to be gained by waiting. What was one minute more? She opened the door and stood aside to allow Nicoli to enter; then softly closing it behind her, with weary footsteps she continued on down the corridor.

Sheila glanced up from the book she held in her thin white hands, her eyes fastening themself upon Nicoli. Then with a heartbroken cry she covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly.

Nicoli crossed to her quickly. Taking her up into her arms and pressing her tightly to her, she said, "My darling, my baby, don't cry—it's I, your Nicoli."

Sheila raised tear-dimmed eyes to Nicoli's. Her hands wandered over the face she loved so well as if to assure herself that it was really Nicoli she beheld and not some ghost who had come to torture her. Confident at last, her arms tightened about Nicoli's neck, and holding her tightly she sobbed brokenly, murmuring over and over, "My darling—my Nicoli"—then, "You do love me, you've come to me—and oh, my darling, I've needed you so!"

Nicoli kissed the lovely golden head as it lay on her shoulder, its soft strands of hair brushing her cheek. Unbelievably her arms were once again holding close all that she loved.

"Yes, darling, I've come for you and I'll never let you leave me again. This time it must be for always..." Nicoli's voice died away as her mouth found Sheila's.

Sometime later Jo knocked lightly upon the door, and Sheila's voice bade her enter. Opening the door, her eyes raced to Sheila's face. Was it possible that she was really looking at the woman who for days had lain so listlessly in her bed, scarcely speaking except when in her troubled sleep she called to Nicoli? Sheila sat propped up against the pillows Nicoli had tenderly arranged to support her back. Her face was animated, her eyes alive, as she said "Sit down, Jo. I want you to know Nicoli better." Turning to Nicoli, she added, "Darling, you'll never know how wonderful Jo has been to me. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be alive, I'm certain."

"I'm sure you are right," Nicoli agreed. "You have been very ill, Jo tells me. But that's all over now, and in a week or so we'll drive back to New York—then you'll forget all of this."

"How true," Jo mused bitterly. "How true!"

"You said we'll drive back, Nicoli—do you really mean you will stay here until I am able to travel?" Sheila asked eagerly.

Nicoli placed her hand on Sheila's cheek. "Of course I'll stay. You don't imagine I'd leave you when I've only just found you again, do you?"

Jo's last bit of hope vanished at Nicoli's words. She had rather thought that Nicoli could stay only a few days—business necessitating her return— and then would meet Sheila in New York later. Those last days were to have been Jo's brief reprieve before entering the final prison of loneliness. But now even the comfort she would have gleaned from the few remaining days with Sheila was to be denied her. This was the finish of her life with the woman before her—and in her heart Jo bid her a loving farewell.

* * *

Late that evening Jo left her room where she had been sitting alone for hours and walked quietly toward the stairway, hearing as she passed Sheila's room the low murmur of her voice and Nicoli's as they talked. Proceeding down the stairs Jo took her tweed coat from a stand in the hall and wrapping it about her, passed silently out into the winter night. The air was cold and Jo turned the large collar of her wrap around her head. The cold was penetrating, causing her to shiver under its intensity; yet she walked on through the gate and into the lonely lane beyond.

As she turned to close the gate she glanced up at the windows of Sheila's room. They were warm and cheerful looking, the soft amber lights sending out a gleam of friendly welcome across the snow wrapped fields. Jo's eyes filled with tears as she gazed upon them, and in her mind she visualized the room beyond, and its occupants. Nicoli would doubtless be sitting close beside Sheila's bed as she herself had sat so many nights during her illness. They would be talking of their plans for the future—a future from which she would be forever excluded.

At the thought of the future Jo realized that in the days to come there could be nothing for her without Sheila. Days would pass into weeks and they in turn into months—lonely months, Jo knew—filled with sorrow-laden hours. Nights when she would awake from dreams of her nearness only to find herself alone...

Jo tramped slowly down the road, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she was alone again, so cruelly alone. As she stopped to light .a cigarette the flame from the glowing match illuminated her face for an instant, disclosing eyes filled with sorrow and despair. As she plodded on with head down and eyes on the path before her, she was unconscious of the soft fine snow that had begun to fall afresh.

After wandering without purpose, without relief, for several hours Jo finally found herself back at the gate. The lights were still gleaming in the room above as she let herself in... Upstairs in her own room once more, Jo undressed mechanically and switching off the lights, slipped wearily into bed.

* * *

It was mid-morning when Nicoli was aroused by Sheila's soft kiss on her hair and her voice saying, "Is this the way you take care of me? I've been awake and starving for an hour!"

Nicoli turned, reached out her arms and drew Sheila into them. "I'm sorry, my darling. Why didn't you wake me?" Then looking into Sheila's bright face she asked, "Did you rest well? I was awake several times and you looked as though you might be sleeping soundly."

Sheila hugged Nicoli. "I slept like a top, but now I'm hungry—I want to get up and go downstairs with you to breakfast."

Nicoli thought as she looked at Sheila what a vast difference there was in her in just the short space of one day. She had known from Jo that most of Sheila's trouble had been mental, but still the miraculous improvement was hard to believe. Sheila seemed like herself again, and so, when she pleaded with her to be allowed to dress and go downstairs, Nicoli consented.

Mrs. Mason looked up from the waffle batter she was stirring, to find Sheila and Nicoli standing in the kitchen door. Dropping the spoon with which she had been beating the mixture, she exclaimed, "Well, land alive, Miss Case, you did give me a start!" Then studying Sheila closely she asked, "Are you sure you're strong enough to be up and about?"

"Well, I am strong now, Mrs. Mason," Sheila replied, "but I shall not be for long unless you hurry those waffles. I feel as though I could eat stacks of them, I'm so hungry!"

Nicoli's hearty laugh boomed across the bright kitchen. Mrs. Mason was caught up in its infectious gayety, and she added her jolly chuckles.

"What's funny?" asked Sheila in her old childlike way.

"You are, you ambitious little one," said Mrs. Mason fondly. "Your breakfast is ready."

Laughing and talking vivaciously, Nicoli and Sheila walked arm in arm into the dining room, where a few moments later Jo found them.

For a minute she could scarcely believe her own eyes as she saw Sheila looking so radiantly alive and so apparently improved. Crossing to Sheila's chair she said, "Well, it looks as though I no longer have a patient."

Nicoli laughed and replied, "No, but I am afraid you will have shortly if she eats another bite."

"They have been kidding me, Jo, because I had an appetite this morning. You'll stand by me, won't you?" questioned Sheila.

"Of course I will," Jo began tenderly; then turning to Nicoli, she forced herself to say matter-of-factly, "I think you can take care of Sheila now, so if you don't mind, I'll go back to New York today. No doubt Doctor Harkness needs me by now."

"I'll miss you, Jo," Sheila said in what Jo thought was a most casual tone of voice, and Jo's heart caught up the words with a stinging question, "But will she? Already she is putting you in the past. You are no longer necessary—you no longer have a place in her life. She doesn't even remember! The sooner you leave the better it will be. Leave them to their love and happiness. You are an intruder here."

Jo's words betrayed none of the anguish she felt. "I'll miss you, too, Sheila—very much—but then I'll probably be running into you and Nicoli in New York."

Nicoli spoke up. "You mustn't wait for that, Jo. You must come to see us. We'll be at the Sheridan-Plaza. Drop in any time. I'm sure Sheila will be happy to have some company during the day while I'm at the office."

Jo made herself answer: "I'll do that, first chance I get—unless of course Doctor Harkness sends me on a case right away."

What would be the use to visit Sheila, she asked herself. How could she see her and not take her into her arms? Not tell her how she loved and wanted her? And most of all, how could she see her in Nicoli's apartment, the very atmosphere of which would cry aloud of the love that had robbed her of Sheila—a love so great that in a few hours it had erased the tender memories of months of close association— months that had meant so much to her—months wherein she had pretended that Sheila was her own.

"If you feel that you do want to go, Jo, why not wait and leave tomorrow?" Sheila suggested. "That way you'll have more time to pack—and besides, there's no need to rush away."

The nurse smiled wanly. "I may do that—I'll think it over between now and train time." Why discuss it, she thought. Her mind was made up: she must go, and quickly, too.

After breakfast Jo went to her room to pack. Ring quietly followed her upstairs. Inside the room he curled up beside the door and studied the strange actions of the girl as she went to and fro, her hands busily engaged in putting her effects into the scattered pieces of luggage. Why hadn't she taken him as usual for a long walk? Why did she ignore him now? The setter whined. Jo dropped the things she carried onto the bed and went toward him. She sat down on the floor beside him.

"What is it, Boy?" she asked, stroking the dog's fine head. Ring's huge paw came to rest on her knee; his liquid eyes looked up into her own.

"I believe you know, Ring," Jo said softly. "You sense what has happened to our little home."

The dog's gaze remained intent. "I believe you know I'm leaving here—leaving here?" Tears stole unheeded from Jo's eyes. Her arms reached out and drew Ring nearer. "Even you can remain here beside her," she whispered; "even you will feel the light touch of her fingers against your thick fur, while I..." Sobs racked her slender figure. The dog snuggled closer. His warm crimson tongue licked her hands affectionately.

"Watch over her, Boy—take care of her... for me—" Jo's words were barely audible. "I love her... so much... so much."

* * *

An hour later Jo called Mrs. Mason to help her with her baggage. Then she walked down the corridor and knocked on Sheila's door. In answer to Sheila's cheery "Come in," she entered the room which once had been so much a part of her life, but which was now filled with mocking memories. Sheila and Nicoli looked up as she entered. Sheila, seeing Jo dressed in traveling clothes, exclaimed, "Why, Jo! You're not really leaving today, are you?"

"Yes, I decided I'd better. I'm leaving on the twelve-forty—I came in to say goodbye."

Nicoli glanced at her watch, and rose. "You haven't a great deal of time. We'll drive you in. The air will do Sheila good, too."

"Please don't bother, Nicoli. I can get a car to come out for me." Jo dreaded the drive into town with Sheila—it would be so much easier to go alone. How different it would be from the first time they had ridden along the road that led to the little village. How awful it would be to see Sheila's face slowly receding as the train got under way! Far better to get it over with at once.

"Nonsense, Jo!" Sheila expostulated. "Of course we'll drive you in. I'll get my things on right away."

"I didn't want to put you to that trouble," Jo protested weakly. What was the use? Nothing mattered now anyway.

"No trouble at all—I'll have the car out in a jiffy," Nicoli announced. She left the room hurriedly.

Jo hesitated. Perhaps after all she was to have a moment alone with Sheila. She would wait until she was finished with putting on her hat and coat. A feeling of weakness stole over Jo. The floor danced before her eyes. She was stifling under the burden of unspoken words. She couldn't stay—after all, what could she possibly say? Jo took advantage of Sheila's moment in the adjoining dressing room to steal blindly downstairs.

* * *

In a few minutes, after a tearful goodbye from Mrs. Mason, they were on their way. Sheila was overjoyed because she was able to leave the house, and talked gaily to Jo and Nicoli during the short journey, her gay words dripping like acid on Jo's already lacerated heart.

As they waited for the train, Jo forced herself to hold back the tears which burned behind her eyes—forced herself to fall back on the abruptness in which she had taken refuge for years in her efforts to deny the existence of her burden. She talked mechanically—the voices of her companions sounded very far away.

Why had God chosen her to bear the heavy cross of such a love as hers? Why, for that matter, had He in His divine wisdom created souls such as her own only to see them suffer untold misery in a world so totally unsuited to their needs for happiness? How often she had been present in her capacity as a nurse and seen His hand take from this earth some person in whom life had been something to which to cling tenaciously, leaving herself to go on—alone—for what? For what? Jo asked grimly. So that now she might know the agony of losing the one human being she had found to love? If so, then she had served her purpose—she was free... yes, that was it—free...

Somewhere in the near distance the train whistle sounded. To Jo its mournful tone was the expression of all the sadness in her being. Closer and closer it came. A moment later, the train ground noisily to a stop.

Jo put her arm around Sheila, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and with a quick goodbye to Nicoli, was gone.

PART FIVE

Jo Trent

You entered in my daily scheme of living

So stealthily I did not know that Life

Had caught our threads together in weaving.

And when I knew, I tried too late to stop her.

Already you were woven in my soul,

And when I tore you out

…It raveled… —Author Unknown

Have you a new case for me, Doctor Harkness—a nice hard case for a change? My last one was deadly dull, as perhaps you know—just a madman for whom I had to have a man assistant, so we could keep him held to the bed; an attempted murder—the wife, poor dear—he decided he didn't like her; then when they put him away for a rest among the other Napoleons, I had a nerve-shattered woman to care for, for weeks. Then her—her—family stepped in and took her away—and the upshot of it is that I'm all tired out from too much doing nothing."

Jo Trent dropped into a chair by the desk with a jarring laugh. Doctor Harkness looked at her searchingly, brought up sharply by her mad flow of words, her unreal laughter, her feverish eyes, her restless uncontrolled body. The matter-of-fact, capable, poised Jo Trent, his pet nurse on whom he had relied for years for cool efficiency in any crisis—that Jo Trent was gone; in her place was a very nearly hysterical woman, babbling, making no attempt to hide her mental and emotional confusion. His thoughts raced: how to question her; how to ease the tension of the taut nerves; how to get to the root of this alarming change in the woman before him. Too well he knew the wall of reserve which she had built between herself and all who might try to pry into the secrets of the woman she really was.

For the six years during which Jo Trent had worked with him, she had fascinated him, largely because he had never been able to fathom her, to classify her as a type, to feel as though he definitely knew her. Always to be depended upon, yes. Steady as a rock, mechanical as any automaton when precision was indicated; pliant on occasion, sympathetic to just the right degree; warmly friendly, yet at the first suggestion of intimacy, aloof and distant—always that insurmountable wall of reserve baffled him. But at least she had always been master of her own emotions. What had happened to her superb mastery of herself?

Freeman Harkness thought back to the beginning of the Allison Graham case. Sheila Graham—Sheila Case. "Her—er—family came to take her away." He recalled now Jo's hesitation over those words.

"What a fool I've been all these years! And what a dolt I was to send her on that case! She asked for it, and yet I suspected nothing. She wanted to be with that woman—and it has broken her."

Harkness had only a cursory interest in homosexual cases, but he had perforce read enough and seen enough to be aware of their existence and their potentialities. Still, it had never occurred to him in connection with Jo Trent. True, he had heard some talk about Sheila Case and Nicoli years before, but he had forgotten it entirely until this moment. He looked at Jo again—at her boyishly cut curls, her trim tailored clothes, her hands—her decisive hands, of which he had never thought before as being masculine. He remembered with a start her deep husky voice and her lack of feminine habits of vanity. Lacking, too, were the petty traits common to women. Forthright she was, and sure of herself, and independent. "Just a beautiful boy," he groaned to himself, "and she has to play at being a woman. She has kept it hidden behind that wall all these years, and some one has found a chink in that wall. She has found love and lost it, and it has broken her. My poor little Jo."

Sparring for time, Doctor Harkness brought a mock professional air into use.

"My dear Miss Trent, instead of sending you out on a nice hard case, as you so politely demand, I rather think I shall recommend a rest cure for you. I sent you out for a few months on a mental case at your request; you stayed twice the time I wanted to spare you and nursed two patients instead of one. And you have come back as full of energy as a dynamo and want to go rushing off without even stopping to discuss the cases with me."

Then, seriously, "Jo, can you tell me about it? What has she done to you, child?"

For the first time in his knowledge, Jo Trent cried. Dropping her head on the desk, she broke into hopeless, shaking sobs large slow tears rolled off her cheeks. Her hands hung lax at her sides. No storm of emotion racked her. Rather, it was as though the needle-sharp wind of desolation blew keenly across the dying embers of her spirit, fanning into feeble flame only the sparks of doubt. There was nothing left of hope to be kindled into new life; and it was not a fostering wine which blew across the fitful, expiring fire, but an icy, raking current which left only barrenness in its wake.

Harkness crossed over to Jo and took her gently in his arms. He reached over for his telephone, called the nurse on duty in the outer office and told her he was seeing no more patients that afternoon, and asked her not to disturb him until he called her. Replacing the telephone in its cradle, he carried Jo to the couch and arranged her comfortably on its pillows. He drew up a chair beside the couch, laid the gray silk handkerchief from his coat pocket across her eyes, and said softly, "Tell me about it, Jo."

Abashed at his own temerity, he waited for the explosion, but none came. Merely the plaintive voice of a sensitive, deeply hurt and bewildered child:

"I love her, and I can't have her. She belongs entirely to some one else. I was only a stop-gap for a few weeks. I thought I could take what she offered me and be happy in the fact that I possessed at least a part of her. And I was... almost happy. But when she was ill, and was delirious, she called constantly for Nicoli, never once for me. Then Nicoli came, and Sheila was transfigured. She could not see that there was another person in her world. I had to see Sheila in Nicoli's arms; I had to hear her laugh as she had never laughed before—such a beautiful, warm, thrilling, happy laugh, deep down within her, like deep low music; I had to hear her very voice change and vibrate—the voice of a lover to the beloved one—and then they told me they were going away together..." The tired voice faltered for a moment, then went on:

"Nicoli never once suspected that I loved Sheila and that Sheila had ever talked of love to me—I was denied even that! Then Sheila was sweet to me, as she would be to anyone to whom she was grateful—and I had to leave without even a good-bye to my little love—I had not even one moment alone with her after Nicoli came. I could not even tell her that I would be waiting. And after all, why wait? What is there to wait for? She is happy, for always. If anything ever came between those two, she would never love again as she loves Nicoli; and now that I've seen Sheila really in love, I could not bear to have crumbs again. I was starving, and she gave me crumbs. I am starving again, and I no longer want crumbs. I want nothing. What is there to want? Possessions? They mean nothing. They are abstract, cold. Travel? If I were in a ship on the widest ocean, I would see her face on the crest of every wave, see it as it looked at Nicoli. Music? If I were hearing the most beautiful music in the whole world, I'd hear in it Sheila's voice as she sang to Nicoli—I'd hear her low happy laugh as she said 'I love you' to another woman. There is left only work. I have been told that there is no grief that work will not heal. I don't believe it—but I want to believe it. I am going to try. I am going to work as no woman has ever worked, if I have to dig trenches with my bare hands. I want to go down into the slums to work, where there is poverty—want—deprivation—suffering—grief; and there I want to make somebody smile. I want some one to smile for me because I shall never smile again with my heart."

Her flow of words ceased on a trembling note. No apologies; no questions—only the dignity of a genuine grief.

Freeman Harkness was racked; he was furious at the futility of trying to help Jo. There was no help. There was no compensation. He knew that there was no other love that could compare with the love of woman for woman, especially when there was a woman of Jo Trent's depth and intense nature to reckon with.

"Time and work, Jo—they have been known to work wonders. Time will seem long, and work will seem a burden at first—but let's try. But first, Jo, promise me one thing: rest a week before you work again. You are really unfit for work."

Jo drew a shuddering breath. "You have been so understanding, Doctor Harkness—so good to hear me through—but I can't promise you that. I couldn't live through a week of idleness now, a week of clamoring thoughts. I couldn't bear trying to keep up my end with my family for seven long days. I am so utterly incapable of putting up a struggle. I must be doing something every minute, or I shall go mad."

Freeman Harkness was too good a judge of humanity to doubt Jo's assertion, and too convinced of the futility of argument to contradict her. He sighed heavily.

"Then I'll send you on a case in the morning. Not to the slums yet, though. Miss Fleming is tired; I'll have you relieve her for a week. A very fractious crippled child—wealthy parents, disagreeable and snobbish—just everything that goes for an all-round trying case. I'll talk to Fleming tonight. You go to this address in the morning—" handing her a hastily scribbled card—"and she will tell you the routine. I'll also talk to the mother, and I'll drop in during the afternoon to give you your orders. Take these two tablets before you go to bed—you will get some sleep. Run on home now, tell your family what you want them to know, and get to bed as soon after dinner as you can. Remember—this is all between you and me."

Jo's eyes filled with tears again. She took the doctor's smooth, firm hand between her two palms and pressed it with a sudden depth of feeling.

"You are the most human soul I have ever known. You are the only person to whom I've ever confided my deepest thoughts. If only I could do for some one person what you are trying to do for me, I might feel as though I had not lived altogether in vain. But—" Her voice broke. "Thanks," huskily.

And she was gone.

* * *

For three long slow torturous days Jo Trent dragged through the farce of being a cheerful, patient nurse to a very spoiled boy of eight.

"It's no go! How did I ever do it before? How can I ever do it again? How can I live day in and day out just counting the hours until I can sleep and try to dream? She won't come to me even in my dreams. Why should she? She is happy. Why did it have to be I? Why should one person be able to fill another's life so entirely, to the exclusion of everything and everybody else? Nobody counts but Sheila, and with her I am not even a memory. If only I could hate her! If only I could hurt her! But if I could crush her, I'd just want to pick her sweet body up in my arms and hold her to me, and kiss her—kiss her eyelids, and her lovely soft hair, and her sweet white breast. Oh, damn—why do I torture myself like this?" Jo rapped at herself, pushing her hair frantically back from her face, walking in a nervous frenzy from side to side of the room, feverishly watching her patient, fearful lest he wake, hoping that he would wake so she would have to lose herself in his needs.

"Three more days of this—then I shall be free!" she told herself. "Free for what? Free to think. Free to give rein to the chaos in this poor befuddled agonized brain. When Friday comes, I'll go down to the slums and see if I can pay my debt to Doctor Harkness—I've at least got that much to do before I call it quits on this sorry game," she told herself determinedly.

Friday morning Jo Trent walked into the office, a travesty of the self-sufficient young person on whom Freeman Harkness had once depended so comfortably.

"What now, Jo?" he asked, springing to his feet and taking her cold hands in his.

Jo smiled mechanically and answered in abstract fashion: "I am on my way to the East Side in search of an epidemic, perhaps. What does it matter? It gets worse, doctor—steadily worse. I can't get on top of it. I have tried—honestly tried. But I can't stop thinking. Perhaps I have not tried hard enough, so I want to try the seamy side. Perhaps I'll find someone who is suffering as much as I am."

"I have found some work for you, Jo, but I don't like to see you go into it in your frame of mind. However, I'll let you have your way about it. Maybe you know best. Three weeks of it—report to me on Tuesday. Sit down a minute while I give you orders."

* * *

One week... two weeks.

Pitiful sights, reeking smells, hideous noises, the visible mechanics of living among the dregs of humanity ground into Jo's nerves.

"I ought to fight this... but there's nothing to make fighting worth while. Not even the good doctor. I rather think I am going to let him down. I'd like not to do that to him, but after all, what difference would it make to him? He'd soon forget—they all forget! Sheila forgot—and I can't. I have to remember."

Jo struck out in the foggy evening to walk uptown, heedless of the long, cold, dreary walk—long apart from all things material.

She came to a busy street intersection. The lights were against her: she looked triumphantly up at the forbidding light, and plunged into the speeding traffic.

A shrill whistle from the traffic officer, a sudden grinding of brakes...

The dazed young foreigner who was driving the heavily loaded van stepped down to face the shouting officers, his faulty acquaintance with the new language deserting him as realization of the enormity of what he had done reached his sluggish brain. He moved toward the crushed body of the young woman whom he had struck down—the officers waved him back as the ambulance came shrieking to a stop.

The crippled news vendor from the corner came hobbling up.

"Please, sir," he addressed the officer. "Don't blame the poor lad. I saw it all. He didn't have a chance. The young woman must've meant to do it. She saw the lights against her. She threw up her head as if to say 'What's the difference?' then she rushed into the street, and right into the path of this van. When she saw it was right on her, she dashed her hand across her eyes and sort of crumpled up as though she wanted to fall in front of it—and I'll swear she smiled as she went down—a sad, queer sort of smile."

* * *

When Freeman Harkness heard the news, he was scarcely surprised.

"Death is the only relief from certain hopeless maladies," he mused—"and for Jo it was the only possible release..."

PART SIX

Always

"When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly,

Stoop, as the yellow roses droop in the wind from the South.

So I may, when I wake, if there be an awakening,

Keep, what lulled me to sleep, the touch of your lips on my mouth.” —India's Love Lyrics—Hope.

Nicoli drove slowly back to the house with Sheila close beside her. It was good to be alone with their love in the house that Sheila had grown to call home. It would be perfect if they might forever forget Broadway and remain always amid these quiet surroundings, away from people and the misery they caused.

How heavenly it would be to live their lives free from the thought that they were being criticised, pointed out—their love for each other discussed as though it were some low vulgar thing. Here, years would pass away and they would in time forget the world and its lack of comprehension, and the only memories of New York which would remain would be those of the happy days and nights. What a tragedy it was that they might not start their journey now along the path that led to that forgetfulness.

Nicoli sighed deeply, Some day... somehow... she would make that dream come true. Time would be her friend. He would help her.

* * *

Sheila, a trifle fatigued from her first drive, lay resting, her gaze fastened on Nicoli who sat close at hand apparently reading.

Nicoli, sensing her eyes upon her, looked up. "What's the matter, dear? Can't you sleep?" she questioned.

Sheila raised herself upon her elbow. "No, I can't. I've been thinking of something I want to do."

Nicoli laid aside her book and walked over to the bed and seated herself. "What is it, Sheila? What do you want to do?"

"Before I tell you, I want to know when we have to get back to New York."

Nicoli noted Sheila's anxious expression. "In about a week, I suppose. I think I really should be back in the office by then. Why?"

"That's all I wanted to hear. I've been wondering if we couldn't spend a few days here together. The woods are so beautiful now, Nicoli, and I want to walk through them with you. The snow is so pretty and white."

Nicoli laughed, relieved. "If that's all you want, that's easy. Of course we'll do it! Are you sure you're strong enough yet?"

Sheila put out her hand and touched Nicoli's. "You are my strength, my darling."

Nicoli drew her into the circle of her arms. Her kiss was warm against the satiny surface of Sheila's lips.

* * *

The following few days were happy ones for Nicoli and Sheila. Each morning found them up early and impatient to start on their daily wanderings. After a hearty breakfast, carrying in their pockets sandwiches Mrs. Mason had prepared for them, they would leave the house, returning in the late afternoon dog-tired and hungry. The brisk air had brought the color back into Sheila's once pale cheeks and the strength back to her slender body.

As Nicoli looked at her tramping along beside her in the heavy snow, she marveled again at her speedy recovery. It was nice to know that her presence could create such a difference in the woman she loved. Then Nicoli’s thoughts would rush back to Sheila's illness, and she would torture herself with what might have been, had Jo not asked her to come. Suppose she had not known in time? But that was all over now, and never again would she allow anything to separate them. Her life had been so empty without Sheila in the years she was away—emptiness which, as she looked back, was magnified a thousand times by the fullness of her life now.

Everything was changed now. The air was twice as sweet to breathe—all of nature was twice as lovely to look upon— and above all, it was twice as good to be alive, in a world wherein Sheila lived and treasured the vast wealth of love Nicoli showered upon her.

On the last day of their stay, Sheila and Nicoli started out for a last tramp through their beloved snow laden woods. As they strolled onward along the path, or, deserting it, plowed their way through the heavy drifts, Nicoli noticed a certain sadness creeping into Sheila's face. Finally, unable to determine the reason for the sudden change, she asked anxiously, "What is it, Sheila? What makes you look so lost in space?"

Her companion's eyes took in the stately grandeur of the snow-mantled trees. When at last she spoke, it was almost reverently: "I'm finding it difficult, so difficult, Nicoli, to tell our friendly trees goodbye. I dread leaving them, leaving here; in spite of everything that has happened, I love it." Sheila sighed deeply. "This place has become home to me."

Yes—that was it—home: the roomy old house, its comfortable rooms and protective atmosphere, and out here the lofty trees—all these had been a sanctuary for their love during these all too brief days, shielding it from all harm. The massive sentinels of the woods had looked down upon her through the brilliant green of their summer raiment, through the bright red and brown and gold of coming winter, and now, after months of viewing her misery, they were seeing reflected in their white glistening branches the happiness that had somehow found her again.

Nicoli's arm drew Sheila close. "I know how you feel, dear. I've fallen under the spell of this quietude too."

Sheila looked up. "It is peaceful here, Nicoli, and I dread New York and the milling crowds. I can't believe I ever liked it—all this has become such a part of me. Besides, here we have everything."

"Who knows?" murmured Nicoli. "Some day we may come back here and finish our lives together among the things we both love so well."

"I hope so!" Sheila whispered fervently. "I hope so." With a sigh she linked her arm in Nicoli's and together they started homeward.

* * *

The evening was spent packing and arranging the numerous details necessary before leaving. Nicoli insisted upon doing the actual work while Sheila directed the procedure from the recesses of a deep chair.

Nicoli paused in the midst of her packing. "What are you going to do with Allison's things?" she questioned.

Sheila's face flushed at the mention of the name. How... horrible it must be for Nicoli to know all about Allison and her life with him, and now to go through the ordeal of seeing his clothes and personal effects in the house wherein she had lived with him, even though he had been ill and their relationship had necessarily been changed.

Still, there were those days when things had been different—how big Nicoli was to be able to cast them aside and forget their existence, and remember only her own blissful days and nights with her. Sheila dismissed the past and hastened to answer.

"I think the best thing to do is to get everything packed up; then in the morning I'll tell Mrs. Mason to send them to the sanitarium."

"All right," Nicoli replied briefly, resuming her work. "We'll do that. I dare say there are quite a few things he can use—it's really a shame they couldn't have been sent sooner."

"Yes, it is," agreed Sheila. "But you see, neither Jo nor Mrs. Mason wanted to bother me while I was ill, so naturally they didn't give me the letter from the state authorities when it arrived. Of course as soon as I did receive it I sent them the information they asked for—"

"Has Allison any relatives?" asked Nicoli interestedly.

Sheila's face clouded. "No, that's the sad part of it—he hasn't. I notified Harrison Blair, his attorney in New York, as soon as I could and he immediately wrote me that he was having Allison moved to 'Hillcrest—that's a private sanitarium right outside the city. At least he'll have the best of care there, even though Mr. Blair said there really wasn't any hope that he would regain his sanity—" the full mouth quivered—"it's all so terrible..."

Nicoli crossed the room and seated herself on the arm of Sheila's chair. Her hands stroked the fair head. "My poor baby! You have been through such an ordeal. I'm so thankful I can take care of you from now on. I shan't ever let anything hurt you again."

Later, after the lights were out, and Sheila lay close to Nicoli in her protecting arms, she said softly, "I shall always love this room, my precious, because it was here you came back to me and here we have spent some of our happiest hours. I hate to think that tonight is our last night in it. I want to stay here with you."

Nicoli's arms tightened about Sheila; then in a hushed voice she asked, "Do you know what it means for me to be back? What it means to have you in my arms again after the countless nights I've spent wanting you close to me?" Not waiting for Sheila to speak, Nicoli's anxious mouth sought hers, and in the velvet blackness of the room found the answer to her questions. Her breath-taking kisses spoke of the pent-up longing in her own soul, of the wild passionate love in her heart for the slim, perfectly molded form she pressed so hungrily against her trembling body. Sheila's beloved hands and arms held her tightly. Never, never, Nicoli vowed, would she lose them again. This time it would be for... always.

* * *

The following morning found Sheila and Nicoli up early, and moving about collecting the few toilet articles that had been left out the night before for use when they should rise. Sheila closed her small toilet case, and exclaimed with relief, "There, that's finished! Now we can go down to breakfast. I'm hungry—aren't you?"

Nicoli smiled knowingly. "Unusually so, darling!"

Almost before the words were uttered, Mrs. Mason's voice sounded from below. "Breakfast, Miss Case."

Nicoli and Sheila walked out of the room, but paused on the threshold almost with one accord and looked back as if to bid it farewell. In each of their minds was the memory of the night past. Unforgettable it had been in its perfect consummation.

At breakfast in the spacious high ceiled dining room there was little conversation. Sheila seemed to be lost in thoughts, and Nicoli knew they were thoughts of the house that to Sheila had become home. The stillness was broken by Mrs. Mason: "I'll miss you, Miss Case, and you, too, Miss Nicoli. I do hope that some day you will come back. I'd like to hear from you," she finished hurriedly, and turning away walked rapidly back into the kitchen.

Mrs. Mason watched the car bearing Nicoli and Sheila disappear around the bend of the lane. Tears coursed slowly down her round cheeks. The house would be desolate now as it had been in years long past, when death had stripped it of its occupants. Her only companion would be Ring— Ring, who had whined so pitifully when Sheila had stroked his head and told him goodbye, Ring, who stood close to her now, looking so dejected and crestfallen at his sudden desertion. Mrs. Mason dropped her hand to his fine head to comfort him. Her eyes wandered over the house.

What was it in its old rafters that seemed to bring sorrow and trouble to those who lived within its walls? She recalled the time when without warning influenza had fallen upon the male members of the Alden household and spirited them away, leaving Mrs. Alden overwhelmed by her loss and the thought of the years of solitude to come. Now later, the pitiful condition of Mr. Graham and the near tragedy which came as a result of it, closely followed by Sheila's illness. Mrs. Mason wondered if its power to cause unhappiness were at an end— if some day its spacious rooms would resound again with happy laughter such as it had once known. Perhaps...

* * *

Speeding along the road, Nicoli, in her masterful manner, outlined the plans she had made.

"We'll spend only a few days in New York, Sheila, just long enough for me to straighten out some of my affairs; then I'm going to take you south—to Florida. I've never been there, and neither have you, so now is the ideal time to go— for while you are stronger, you are not able to stand the bitter cold of this northern midwinter."

"I'd love it, Nicoli! That is, if you really feel that you can stay away from the office."

"Of course I can stay away. Heaven knows when I've taken a real vacation—to be frank about it, I think I need the change as much as you do."

Sheila patted the firm hand on the steering wheel. "I'm so glad we aren't going to stay in New York. I really have been dreading it."

Florida... what a wonderful picture the name brought to mind. How different from Manhattan and its snow covered streets—streets that would be mushy and dirty from the trampling of thousands of hurrying feet, snow that would be covered with the imprints of the chains on the tires of hundreds of automobiles as they rushed along Broadway. There would be slush and dirt and crowds and clamoring noises, dreary lowering days to quench the stoutest spirit.

Yes, it would be perfect to go south with Nicoli, to leave I it all behind. To see for the first time the beauties of the sunshine state, to bask in its revivifying warmth—to be a part of the gay winter season in cities alive with the brilliant colors of tropical wearing apparel, on beaches splashed with silver and green and gold; and best of all to ride at night through the warm balmy air filled with the fragrance of orange blossoms and of jasmine... Sheila threw back her head and revelled in her mental picture.

They stopped later in the day for luncheon at a small place along the road. As they sat eating Nicoli watched Sheila's dancing eyes as she enthusiastically talked about their coming trip.

"When will we have to come back?" she demanded of Nicoli.

After a moment's consideration, Nicoli answered indulgently, "I see no reason why we can't stay all winter. There really isn't anything in New York that the office force can't attend to, or that I can't handle by wire."

"But what about the new script you said you were working on? When will you finish that?"

"That's just it, darling. I'm not going to finish it." Nicoli noted Sheila's surprised expression and added quickly, "I'll tell you later what my plans are about my writing—but now suffice it to say we're going south. Okay?"

"Okay!"

A few hours later found them in the corridor outside of Nicoli's apartment. Sheila slipped her arm around Nicoli's waist, and together they walked in.

"Oh, I'm glad to be here again!" she exclaimed as she pulled Nicoli down on the divan beside her.

The memories of the hours spent in its sheltering recesses rushed back to Nicoli's mind... hours when she had held Sheila in her arms telling her of her great love... later, hours when alone she had sought solace in its comforting depths. Now as they sat close to each other again, all of the sadness and desolation of the years past vanished from their minds, and ahead, looming bright with the promise of happiness, lay the future.

The next few days were busy ones for Sheila as she rushed about the shops purchasing clothes for the coming trip. It was great fun when all New York was huddled in heavy coats and furs to be buying light filmy frocks, white sports clothes, and soft pastel shaded sweater suits—and best of all, to be buying them to wear on a trip with Nicoli. Sheila's spirits rose as she went about her shopping tour, scarcely stopping to rest until at night she lay utterly exhausted on the divan before the fire.

The last day was spent roaming around with Nicoli as, finished now at her office, she went about the task of replenishing her own wardrobe. Sheila thought she had never seen her more attractive than when in one of the shops she asked her opinion of the smartly tailored white suit with its gaily colored scarf tied high about her throat, and the soft white polo coat with its wide lapels... Nicoli, typically.

That evening they moved about the apartment busily packing. Trunks and hand luggage cluttered the otherwise orderly rooms. Discarded boxes and tissue paper littered the floors, and everywhere was the evidence of Sheila's extensive shopping tours.

Nicoli paused amid the disarray. "I think it would be a good idea to have the trunks shipped to St. Augustine."

Sheila dropped the gaily colored shoes she had been carefully stowing in the business-like shoe trunk and seated herself on the edge of the crowded bed. "Why, darling?" she questioned. "Aren't we going to Miami as we planned?"

"Of course, dear," Nicoli answered. "But I thought we'd probably want to spend a few days in St. Augustine. There's really a lot to see there, you know, and if we do that we'll need lighter clothes."

"Oh, I see. Well, if that's the case, it is best to send them there." Sheila laughed. "You had me worried. For a moment, I thought I wasn't going to see Miami after all."

"Silly! You're like a baby. It's downright dangerous to promise you anything."

Sheila pulled Nicoli down beside her. "If I am a baby, you've made me one, darling."

* * *

Early the next morning found them skimming along the road leading south. The air was raw and cutting, and the country through which they passed appeared barren and desolate. Everywhere the earth was covered with its crust of ice and snow, and the farm houses they passed looked as if they had been deserted by all life. Sheila, wrapped in her warm fur coat, snuggled close to Nicoli. It was cold, but they didn't mind.

Throughout the day they sped on, stopping only for gasoline and a hastily eaten lunch—for now that they were really on the way south Nicoli and Sheila both were anxious to escape the vicious onslaught of the northern winter. Their only idea was to annihilate distance. Stops were brief and unplanned. They drove steadily, stopping wherever the night might overtake them, rising early in the morning and continuing on.

* * *

The Florida line at last. "We're really in Florida now," Nicoli said enthusiastically. "We're only a few hours' drive from St. Augustine."

"I'm so glad, darling! It seems right now as if our holiday has really begun."

Nicoli glanced quickly at Sheila's sparkling face, then back to the road before her. It was inspiriting to see her so alive and happy, and Nicoli wondered how much more so she would appear when she had told her of the plan which for days had been slowly formulating in her mind.

Everywhere the country was clothed in shades of green: bright glossy green of huge oaks; ghostly gray green of festoons of Spanish moss hanging from their boughs; yellow green of the parasitic mistletoe which crowned their branches; dark rich green of the holly, dusty green of the dense undergrowth of palmettos. Bright clusters of red holly berries peeped out through the tangle of snakelike vines which climbed to the highest tree tops and fell dripping to the ground only to start the upward climb again on the nearest sapling. The bamboo vine trailed over fences or twined its way into the pines, its scarlet berries an elusive patch of color against their dark needles. The broad shining leaves of the regal magnolias caught the sunlight, relieving the dense woods from any aspect of gloom.

Late afternoon found Nicoli and Sheila arriving at the picturesque old city of St. Augustine. To the right as they entered was an old cemetery, its ancient moss-covered tombstones gradually crumbling under the hand of time. Around it was a low vine-covered wall built by an earlier generation to protect its dead. It was beautiful in its quiet solemnity, as the sunset glow filtered through the overhanging trees and came to rest in pale rose colored shafts on the ancient stones.

Sheila, glancing up, noticed the ancient burial place, and pointing it out, cried, "Wait a minute, Nicoli. Let's stop. I'd love to walk through this—it's lovely."

"I would too," Nicoli replied, bringing the car to a standstill. "It is so peaceful, though, so sacred looking, that I feel almost as if we were desecrating it to enter. I wonder how old it is."

They left the car and without a word passed silently through the gates. As they walked among the graves reading those of the inscriptions which had not been erased by the years, a sense of serenity came over them.

Sheila, coming upon a grave upon which the elements and the passage of time seemed to have had a more destructive effect, said with a shudder: "Nicoli, look! Oh, it must be terrible to be buried and one day hundreds of years later have one's final resting place broken and shattered like this." Her eyes looked strangely serious as she continued, "Promise me, if anything ever happens to me you will see that I am cremated—I can't bear the thought of being in the ground..." Then in a soft hushed voice, "Besides, that way I could be with you always, for you would have my ashes."

Nicoli shivered at the morbid words and at the morbid thought which had prompted them. As she sought in her mind for an answer, Sheila added, "I'd like for you to use the jade box."

Nicoli's look was tender. Her words were softly spoken: "I promise." Taking Sheila by the arm, she hurried her back to the car.

Shortly they were passing through the old gates of the city, gates which for hundreds of years had guarded its entrance. Ahead stretched a narrow street, wide enough for only one vehicle; and everywhere there was the spirit of those ancient Spaniards who had come so long ago to a New World.

"I love this place!" Sheila exclaimed, her eyes alight with interest. "For the first time in my life history is something besides colorless facts."

"I thought you'd like it─"

Nicoli's sentence was broken as Sheila rambled on.

"I've heard of St. Augustine from childhood in terms of the oldest city, and the oldest house, and the old fort which had been under three flags but had never been taken—I had to study all of that—but it never struck a responsive chord; it was just so many words that I had to learn. But now that I'm here, it's so different. I love it." Sheila gripped Nicoli's arm for emphasis. "I want to see every bit of it. I want to absorb the very atmosphere of it."

Nicoli took up the theme: "That's one reason I thought we wouldn't stay at a typical resort hotel. I think we'll both enjoy ft more if we find some place instead that is more or less typical of the old St. Augustine. What do you say?"

"I'd much rather do that," Sheila agreed. “Then we'll be in the mood for history. My only regret is that I didn't learn more about the town—it's positively fascinating. It reminds me of a picture book!"

Nicoli laughed fondly. "This does me good, darling. It's so good to see you entering into the simple things with so much spirit. You've seen so much of the world and of worldly things that I wondered at first if the simplicity of all this would bore you. I'd hoped that it wouldn't because secretly I have always been intrigued by its legends and I wanted to stop here for the mental satisfaction and the rest I thought it would afford us both."

"But I love it, Nicoli. Perhaps I shouldn't if I were not with you, but with you, it's perfect. I'll admit I have been thinking of Florida altogether in terms of the smart winter colonies at Palm Beach and Miami, and of warm blue water and lazy days on a white beach—but now I find that's only a part of its attraction."

"Let's go hunt our little hotel on the inlet now," suggested Nicoli in her decisive fashion. "We'll unpack our things and then go for a ramble through the interesting spots—that is, if you are not too tired."

"If you only knew how I love for you to plan things for me, Nicoli," answered Sheila. "It seems that all my life I've had to plan for others, and when you take things in your own hands, and say what we'll do, where we'll go, it makes everything so much more exciting."

"It's what I intend to do from now on," was Nicoli's low terse reply. Then in a different, brisk tone: "Here's our hotel—suit you?"

"Decidedly—but look, Nicoli, at the bridge. Doesn't it seem out of place so close to these old buildings?"

Nicoli's eyes fastened themselves on the giant white structure. What a sharp contrast this touch of modern civilization struck against the quaint architecture of other years. How extraordinary it was to find the ancient turrets and stolid gray rock walls of old Fort Marion and the modernistic lines of the imposing bridge within a stone's throw. Somehow it rather accentuated the exotic beauty of the town that was.

Nicoli looked into Sheila's eyes and forgot to answer her question.

* * *

"Sheila," Nicoli asked the question as she sat back comfortably in a deep chair lazily smoking, "does it seem possible to you that this is really winter with all the flowers and trees looking as though if might be July?"

"It is a new sensation to be able to run away from sleet and blizzards," Sheila replied, sinking to the floor beside Nicoli's chair. "There was never a winter when I didn't want to do it, and it's heavenly to be able to do it with you."

Nicoli studied Sheila's vivid face and shining eyes; then in the soft tones which Sheila loved to hear, she queried: "Do you realize that in a very few days it will be Christmas?"

Sheila's face became serious, her eyes a little sad. "Christmas has always been an empty day for me, Nicoli; other women have had their families, or some one who belonged to them, some one to share the day with them—but I never had anyone, and I've always felt shut out. You see, I can't remember my parents—they both died when I was a tiny child. There wasn't anyone to take care of me, so I was placed in the convent. The sisters were kind to me, darling—but at Christmas so many of the children went to their homes, and I... I didn't have one to go to—" Sheila's words faltered. "Later, when I went on the road, the only Christmas days I knew were spent in the theater and in hotels, alone. This will be the first real holiday season I've ever known—I'll have you... no theaters, no work—just you—" Again her voice trailed off.

Nicoli tenderly laid an arm across Sheila's shoulders, and drawing her head gently over on to her knee, she said vibrantly, "You know you have me, darling, because you belong to me and I'll always be with you. You shan't ever be alone again—ever."

So they sat until the last bit of light had faded away and the room was dark, with the exception of the glow from two cigarettes which came and went as they burned, two cigarettes very close together.

They emerged for a stroll in a star-sprinkled light which made them newly conscious of the feeling of having been suddenly spirited back through the centuries to the days when history was in its making. In the time worn square, the old slave market stood a mute testimony to the days when human beings were bought and sold as chattels. Even so practical and prosaic an institution as the post office in this old city was a relic of the long ago; once the stately mansion of the governor men St. Augustine was under Spanish regime, a lordly house which had then stood in the midst of a wonderful botanic garden, high walled, with a lookout whence the Spaniard might gaze out to sea. On a bronze tablet beside the door was a story of the old structure, and Sheila stood in the uncertain light trying to decipher its wording.

"Come along, inquisitive; you can read that later," Nicoli said. "I have to come down in the morning—I've asked my office to forward my mail here."

"Business first, as usual," Sheila teased.

Blessed night enveloping, cloaking their love, followed by its glorious gift to man: silently on soundless white feet new day came upon them.

* * *

Nicoli emerged from the post office carrying a small package which she was plainly endeavoring to conceal behind her handbag. In her hand she held a few letters. Coming up to Sheila she said in a relieved tone, "I've very little correspondence from the office, so things evidently are going along very smoothly."

Sheila's eyes took on a mischievous expression as she queried, "And from whom is the mysterious package that you're trying so hard to hide from me?"

Nicoli laughed. "You'll find out soon enough, young woman —but now the important thing is lunch. Where shall we go, my darling?"

They found a charming little place where soon they were indulging themselves in crisp southern waffles and, creamed chicken. Lingering over their coffee Sheila suddenly brought her eyes back from the window out of which she had been gazing at the small boats as they lazily drifted on the blue-green water of the inlet, and looking into Nicoli's eyes said, "Darling, tomorrow night is Christmas Eve, and I do want to go to a midnight service with you at one of the churches!. I've so very much to be thankful for this Christmas—can't" we go?"

Nicoli reached across the small table and took Sheila's hand in her own. "Of course we'll go."

Slowly they walked back to the hotel. It had been sultry earlier in the day, but now a fresh breeze was coming in from the sea, sweeping through the broad piazzas and breathing into the windows the fragrance of the "Pride of India," and some times of the orange.

Sheila linked her arm through Nicoli's. "I'm so happy, darling."

Later, the same soft perfume-laden breeze drifted across Sheila's light hair as it lay slightly disarranged on the pillow then continuing on, gently brushed the darker tones of Nicoli’s.

* * *

"Nicoli, what did you have to tell me?" questioned Sheila as they sat in a little shop overlooking the plaza, slowly sipping the iced drinks in the glasses before them.

Nicoli flicked the ashes from her cigarette, then raised her eyes. "I intended telling you tomorrow—a sort of Christmas present, as it were—but I find I'm too anxious to know your reaction to my plan."

"Do go on, Nicoli—I can't wait to know!"

"Well, simply this: I'm going to send for the manuscript I left in New York, rewrite it to suit you—then, when we return, I want to produce it with you in the title role."

Sheila's face clouded as she remembered the bitterness Broadway and its habitues had brought them. Nicoli saw the change of expression, and sensed the reason. "Wait, darling—before you think too much, let me finish. This will be my last one and yours too. After that I have decided definitely, once and for all, to give up the theater. Our happiness is the only thing that counts now. We'll leave New York after this coming season. Now—what do you say to that?"

"I say... it's what I've dreamed of—to live quietly and peacefully with you, away from the rush and noise of New York. I'm so tired of all that, and I've never been quite so happy as during the few days we spent together at the Alden place. If we could only go back!"

"Never mind, darling—who knows? Maybe we shall." Sheila glanced at her watch and observed, "If we're going to attend a midnight service tonight, I think it would be a good idea to stroll around and locate the church we want to go to; besides I've some shopping to do, and the stores are simply live with people. I think the whole town must be out today."

They made their way along the crowded street. Sheila pressed Nicoli's arm gently. "I can scarcely wait for the time to come when we can go on like this day in and day out. I've wanted you so long to make my life complete, and now that I'm really to have you all to myself, I find I can hardly believe it's almost too good to be true."

"But it is true. The long barren months I spent alone, not knowing where you were, taught me that my love for you is the biggest thing in my life, and if taking it means defying people you and I both know can't understand, then I'm quite willing to do just that. I'm through sacrificing myself and you. From now on they can all go to hell!"

They came at last to an old cathedral. Its time-scarred walls looked strangely lovely now with the sun striking them fresh clear from across the live-oak trees in the square and through the palmetto leaves in the garden opposite it. In the belfry above was a bell that for two centuries had pealed the joys and sorrows of the sleepy town—a bell doubtless with traditions and memories of its own.

The cathedral doors stood slightly ajar, extending peace and calm to those who entered—peace such as it had generously allowed to fall over the many troubled hearts that had sought solace within its walls: a peace as great as that which had come to Nicoli and Sheila.

"Isn't it impressive?" breathed Sheila in a hushed tone. "So tranquil—so calm."

"Yes, it does have an air of peace about it that is almost tangible. It couldn't be lovelier. Isn't this just the place we are looking for, Sheila?"

* * *

Christmas Eve... midnight... suddenly there leaped into the sacred stillness a flood of throbbing music—exulting, welcoming—a sustained minor, symbolical of the star which led the Wise Men to His birthplace, rising clear and triumphant over the deeper pealing of the organ as it proclaimed the glad tidings.

The mellowness of age added to the hallowed beauty of the ancient Catholic church wherein were assembled the devout come to pay tribute to the New Born Babe... its interior a mirror of the faded past.

Unfaltering flames of countless waxen tapers cast a holy light over the church, touching the faces of the choir boys with an ethereal purity, transforming the faces of the congregation into those of worshipers rapt in contemplation of the beautiful mystery which was His coming.

Kneeling beside Nicoli in the church, lighted by the burning tapers and a gold altar lamp which hung from the beams before the cross, Sheila found herself wishing that it were possible for their love to have upon it the blessing of the church... wishing that she might kneel before the cross and the figure of her Saviour and take the vows that would bind her until eternity to Nicoli—sacred vows that would make them one forever. At the thought that fulfillment was always to be denied her, tears gradually clouded her eyes and finally, unheeded, coursed down her cheeks.

Nicoli's fingers sought hers in the semi-darkness, their warmth giving her courage. Then Sheila knew that Nicoli had, during the fleeting moment she had held her hand, slipped something on her finger. Looking down, she saw two slender circlets not unlike wedding bands—one of diamonds, the other of sapphires. The voice of the priest went on as he chanted the Latin phrases of the service, but to Sheila now they were meant only for herself and Nicoli. Somewhere in the dim candlelight, with eyes blinded by tears, she found the hand of the silent woman beside her and in her heart made the blessed vows of fidelity.

To Nicoli the placing of the rings upon Sheila's finger had meant the same thing that it had to Sheila: never any more would she strive to forget their love; from that moment forward she belonged wholly and unrestrainedly to her. The diamonds had to her mind symbolized the durability and age-lessness of their love, and the sapphires of deepest blue, the loyalty which would mark the passage of their years together. Just as the precious stones endured throughout time without change, so would their love live on always.

In the early hours of Christmas morning as they lay with arms entwined, the love of the blessed season flowed over them, filling their souls with an unutterable peace.

A few hours later Nicoli was awakened by a light kiss on her hair and by Sheila's cheery voice: "Merry Christmas, sleepyhead!"

Nicoli roused herself, and rubbing her hands across eyes still heavy with sleep, sat up in bed. Sheila stood looking down at her, her hands behind her back.

"Merry Christmas yourself, young one," she answered.

"Close your eyes," commanded Sheila, "tight, and don't peep."

From behind her back Sheila brought forth a strand of tiny seed pearls and lovingly fastened them about Nicoli's throat.

"There! Now you can go and look in the mirror," she said as she dropped into a chair and, curling her feet under her, settled back to watch Nicoli's expression upon seeing her gift.

Nicoli slipped from the bed and crossing to the dressing table looked into the shining glass.

"They're exquisite, darling," she exclaimed as she gazed at the lustrous white surface of the small pearls. Then she added, "But you shouldn't have bought them—really you shouldn't."

Sheila jumped up from the chair and putting her arms about Nicoli's shoulders, questioned, "But you do like them, don't you? I know you don't care particularly for jewelry for yourself—but these pearls are small enough for you to wear with your tailored things, and I wanted terribly for you to have them." Pressing Nicoli to her she continued, "I want you to wear them always, and to know that really they are my arms and hands that are holding you close and loving you so."

Nicoli's voice sounded low and musical in her ear: "My darling, they will ever seem just that—your arms and precious hands."

Sheila released her and said, "Wait—I've something else for you."

While roaming about the shops Sheila had discovered a rare beautiful etching of the old Catholic church in which she and Nicoli had later pledged their love on Christmas Eve. She had bought the etching for Nicoli, and on the back of it she had written the words which Nicoli at the moment was reading: "The church is old, but no older than our love. It endures, but it will endure no longer than shall our love. Always—Sheila."

Nicoli looked up, her eyes suffused with unshed tears. "It's the most beautiful gift I've ever had, darling—for me, it's the best part of our visit here." She came closer. "I wouldn't take the world for your being sentimental about it. I wanted to feel that last night meant to you what it did to me—" Nicoli ceased speaking.

She folded Sheila into her arms and kissed her eyes, her soft fair hair, finally her lips... lingeringly.

* * *

Two days later the car nosed its way south. Sheila felt a pang of regret upon leaving the quaint town wherein they had" been so happy. Miles faded away into the distance as Nicoli drove the car at a high rate of speed over the broad smooth ribbon of road. Now they were driving along beside the wide expanse of ocean, the roar of the beating surf in their ears as the white capped waves came in and broke along the smooth white sands of the shore. Far out in the turquoise water, porpoises were at play, their huge black glossy bodies shining in the brilliant sun as they came to the surface and then plunged back into the cool salty waters.

In the distance, penciled against the horizon, was a steamer, its black smoke streaking upward until, mingling at last with the clouds, it disappeared, only to be succeeded by another spiral of gray black mist which in turn ascended and was lost in the fleece dotted heavens.

Closer inshore a shrimp fleet moved slowly southward, its saffron hued sails a colorful reminder of old Portugal. In its wake hung a flock of sea gulls, now floating delicately, now swooping with an expert flash upon their luckless prey—the sounds of their quarreling muted by distance into a tenuous murmuring.

Farther down the coast the sea vanished, and in its stead appeared miles of swamp land and thick underbrush. Pines were giving way to stately palms with their curiously swaying slender trunks. Occasionally a heron started up from the ground, its snow white plumage in vivid contrast to the murky gray of the marsh lands over which it flew.

Now the road followed the lazy curves of the Indian River in whose smooth waters the drooping palms were mirrored— here in clusters; there, on a point where a spur of land pushed its way far out into the stream, one solitary palm leaned perilously low, almost caressing the waters with its fronds.

Sheila's eyes drank in the beauty of the countryside. The air was sweet and warm as it floated in through the open windows, and in her heart was the echo of the peace with which Nature seemed to have blanketed her creation. Sheila, revelling in the utter serenity of it all, brought her gaze to rest on Nicoli's face. It was so heavenly to be riding along with her—to know that henceforth nothing could take her away—to know that year in and year out she would be hers to love and cherish, until the day when one of them must pass beyond.

Sheila's arm stole around Nicoli's shoulder. "I'm so happy, darling; life is so complete, so full, now that I have you. It is so wonderful, Nicoli, to belong to you, to feel that always it will be just we two." She drew a deep sigh—one of supreme contentment—then went on: "Surely there can be no greater happiness than this!"

Nicoli lessened the speed of the car, removed one hand from the wheel, and drew Sheila's head close to her own. Then with eyes ahead intent on the road, she gently brushed her lips. "Before long, dearest," she said, "we will be free to live our lives in our own way—free to love each other away from the people who can't understand. We will go somewhere where they can never again take from us our right to live. Somewhere there is such a place, I'm sure."

Shelia's fingers wandered through the soft strands of Nicoli's hair. Her words sounded deep and musical: "I love you so, my darling—you're everything I want from life. You alone can make it worth the living."

With hearts closely attuned one to the other they drove on until late afternoon. The sun was fast sinking, and the clouds hanging low on the horizon had taken on a purplish cast. In the distance tall feathery Australian pines were silhouetted against the deepening rose and gold of the sky, while high above rode the pale moon, as yet barely visible in its faint outline. Later, its glorious deep blue rays would paint the semi-tropical woods with a magic brush, lending an air of romance to the world and its lovers. High above the earth it would ride on its journey through the night; lacy clouds and glittering stars would enhance its splendor until dawn, stealing across the sky, should at length obliterate it from view.

* * *

The swift current of gay winter life in Miami soon engulfed Nicoli and Sheila. Inevitably Nicoli knew dozens among the throng, and the threads of acquaintance were quickly picked up and knitted into close companionship.

"We must meet people, must be a part of all this, Sheila. After all, you must play, and I must make contacts. Later on I shall want to write, and you will have friends for the hours when we shall necessarily be apart." Nicoli had said in answer to Sheila's complaint that they were almost never alone any more.

They had taken a small apartment at the beach and a cabana at one of the numerous sun clubs, and the days were spent lounging about on the soft white, sands and bathing in the blue-green waters. Now, as Sheila removed her smart white bathing cap and prepared to lie down beside Nicoli, a merry crowd came up. A tall, handsome, sun-tanned boy detached himself from the rest, and rushing forward, grasped Sheila's hands and pulled her back to her feet. "Oh, no you don't! No loafing —we're on our way home to change clothes for the tea dance at the Roney. We'll drop you at the apartment and be back in fifteen minutes to pick you up."

Sheila looked at Derek Van Pelt as he stood holding her hands; with a sigh of resignation she answered, "All right—see you later, Nicoli," and was gone.

As they tramped toward Derek's car, she thought how little of real life this harum-scarum bevy of youngsters really knew, as they raced about bent only on excitement and a good time. Particularly there was Paula, Derek's sister, scarcely twenty-one—knowing life only as a place in which to swim and dance until dawn, with never a serious thought in her chic bobbed head.

Dancing that afternoon in the open air beneath the swaying palms of the Roney Plaza's gay Palm Garden, Derek's arm tightened about Sheila's shoulder as he whispered, "I'm mad about you, Sheila, and have been ever since I first met you. Can't we steal away from the others and go for a drive alone?"

Sheila's glance took in the flushed, excited face of her partner. Such an impetuous youth... so young... what could she possibly offer him ? Wasn't it wrong to go on dancing and playing with him—whiling away the hours in his company, allowing him to become more and more attached to her? For love at his age was such a serious thing; anything might happen if she continued this. Derek's persistent voice broke her train of thought: "Say 'yes' dearest; do come! I must be alone with you."

Sheila's soft voice answered, "Some other time, Derek; not this afternoon." Then seeing the hurt expression in his eyes, she added quickly, "We really shouldn't leave the rest, you know."

"Tonight, then," insisted Derek. "We'll have dinner somewhere on the beach and then drive. What about it, darling?"

"Very well, Derek, tonight then," murmured Sheila, though instantly she questioned the advisability of her decision.

True, Nicoli would be busily engaged with her writing, and she would be free to pursue her own pleasures—but was she free? It was all very well to talk of mingling with people, but when one did, such situations as this were bound to arise. Was it fair to be so apparently foot loose and yet so securely tied? Wasn't it rather a shabby sort of way to go about living—allowing men, and boys such as Derek, to become fascinated by her wealth of experience, her glamorous career? Yet how to live otherwise...

At any rate, Sheila gleaned comfort from the thought that soon they would be back in the city busy with rehearsals; then the season—and then best of all, life would straighten out, and she and her beloved Nicoli would be safely settled in their new home wherever they might choose to make it. At least, they had both decided that it would be secluded, thus doing away with almost all social contacts. Yes—it would be good to forget pretense and to live only for each other. Until that time should come, she had little choice but to be the woman she seemed to the world, and to live that woman's life.

The music ended, and Derek's strong young arm guided Sheila through the maze of tables toward the one where Paula and her same merry crowd were just settling themselves. As they came up, Paula raised her large, heavily fringed gray-green eyes, and with a bright gesture toward the chair next to her own, "Here, Sheila, next to me; I want to talk to you—I haven't had a moment for days with you. Derek seems to have had a monopoly on your time."

There was a ripple of good natured laughter from the rest of the party; they all realized how true Paula's words were.

"What are you drinking, Sheila?' asked Derek, ignoring Paula's statement and the ensuing laughter. "The same as usual ?"—this with an air to show his familiarity with her tastes.

“Yes," answered Sheila, apparently confirming the intimacy between them.

As they sat talking gaily over their drinks, Paula leaned close to Sheila and spoke in a hushed voice: "Am I never going to see you away from this mad crowd? I've tried for weeks— there's always someone."

Sheila glanced quickly at the serious face of the girl beside her. Had she misinterpreted the tone in which Paula had spoken, or... surely she was mistaken. Why, Paula was a baby. Carefully she began to study Paula's perfect features: the deep pools of color which were her eyes, the firm, determined chin, and lastly the full sensuous mouth which when parted disclosed strong, white, flashing teeth. Her dark auburn hair, closely cut and waved back from a high forehead, conformed perfectly with the outline of her well shaped head.

Was it possible?

Paula continued, "Let me pick you up for luncheon tomorrow at one—just you and I. I do so want to spend some time with you. I've so much to say, and soon you'll be leaving us."

Sheila scarcely recognized her voice as she replied, "I'd be delighted, Paula; at one, then."

The strains of a melodious rhumba floated through the palms, and there was a general confusion as members of the party arose to dance—then Derek's voice above the chatter saying, "That's enough, Sis. Save your gossip—this is my dance with Sheila."

"Yes, they all are," Paula retorted, removing her arm from the back of Sheila's chair; and lifting her glass to her lips, she drained its contents.

Two hours later Derek's sleek, powerful car came to a stop before Sheila's apartment. "See you at eight, dearest," he whispered as he helped her from the car. Amid the noisy goodbyes of its occupants, Sheila walked swiftly through the entrance.

Upstairs she found Nicoli engrossed in her work. Sheila went toward her; Nicoli raised her head for their customary kiss.

"Did you have a good time at the Roney, darling? Any excitement?"

"Same old thing, dearest—dancing, a few drinks, and worlds of chatter—they're a grand crowd, but I'd gladly have given it all just to be sitting here quietly with your arms around me."

Nicoli smiled. "Well, it won't be long before we'll have just that, Sheila, but until this"—Nicoli indicated the loose pages of manuscript scattered over the desk—"is finished, I'm bound to my work. In other words I'm a slave."

Sheila's arms tightened about her. "But I do miss you all through the day, horribly—I feel so incomplete without you. I'll be glad when it's all over and you're free again. How much longer will it take?"

"Not long," Nicoli replied. "I'd say a week at the outside."

Sheila's face lighted up. "I'm so glad—but say, how ever did you manage it? I was under the impression you had weeks of work."

"I would have had, darling, but fortunately there weren't a great many changes to be made in what I had already written."

Sheila seated herself on the arm of Nicoli's chair; her fingers came to rest on the woman's cheek. "I can't wait to read it," she said. "In fact I think you've been mean not to let me see it before now. What's it like, Nicoli? Please tell me."

Nicoli's eyes grew serious. "I haven't wanted to say much about it, Sheila, until I could see just how it would shape up—but now I will tell you this: I honestly believe it is the best thing I've ever written. I don't see how it could be otherwise..." Nicoli's voice took on an added tenderness. "You see, every line was written especially for you. I wanted this last effort to be your greatest success as well as my own—but here, now, that's enough of this, I have to get back to work."

Nicoli pulled Sheila down to her and kissed her, first gently, then fiercely, lingeringly—then pushing her away, in a voice shaded with reluctance, she whispered, "Not now, devil... later. I said I must work—do you understand?—work."

Sheila sang softly as she went about her shower and dressing, and the plaintive words and melody of "Always" drifted out to Nicoli as she wrote, causing her to lay aside her papers. A suggestion of a smile played on her strong features as she thought of her happiness with Sheila, her great love for her, and of the untold joys the years would bring to them both.

Remembering suddenly that Sheila was dressing, she called, "Where are you going tonight?"

Sheila, in answer, appeared in the doorway wrapped in a robe. "Out with Derek for dinner and a drive. Do you mind?"

"Of course not—you know I don't. I'll probably be hard at it when you come home," Nicoli answered, then resumed her writing.

Somehow the sentences would not come. Did she mind? Wasn't Sheila with Derek most of the time when she was in his set? Oh, it was foolish! "You're being silly," she told herself. "They are children to Sheila, even though the actual difference in their ages and hers is little. But Sheila is fascinating, attractive," her brain reminded her. "And Derek is young, and eager for love... suppose—oh, it’s too improbable even to think about. Sheila would never encourage him.” With a shrug Nicoli threw off her brief worries and resumed her task.

Across the intimate table with its tiny amber light, Sheila and Derek lingered over their liqueurs. On the dance floor couples swayed gracefully to the haunting music of the excellent orchestra as they played one of the season's most popular tunes. But Derek was not in the mood to dance. He chose rather to sit quietly in conversation with Sheila. To him she was quite the loveliest creature there: her golden skin tanned by the Florida sun, together with her fair hair, made of her a striking figure—a woman to draw the eyes of anyone who came in contact with her, and to hold them. Tonight, in the shimmering ivory satin sheath-like gown she wore, she was more beautiful than ever before to the boy who sat across from her so completely fascinated.

"You're exquisite, Sheila," Derek said earnestly as he leaned across the white surface of the table to light the cigarette Sheila held poised in her fingers.

Accepting the proffered match, Sheila's gaze met his. "You're sweet, Derek—always saying such flattering things to me."

"But they're true—all of them—you know they are!" Then in a lower tone, "I do love you so, Sheila. I've thought of nothing else for weeks—I simply must tell you. How can I allow you to leave me? What can anything possibly mean to me when you are no longer here?"

"Sh-h, Derek—you mustn't say such things to me. Why, in a few weeks you will wonder how you could even have thought them." Sheila laughed, nervously, and continued, attempting to speak lightly. "It's the exotic beauty of everything here: the music—the soft glow of the lights—and outside, the ocean, with its metallic band of moonlight streaming across it."

A fleeting hurt expression passed over the features of the earnest boy opposite her. "Suppose we drive in that moonlight you speak of—I want to, terribly."

"I'd love it," Sheila replied, and prepared to retouch her makeup. Derek summoned the waiter.

The drive along the bay front with the windows open and the tangy salt air floating in was heavenly, thought Sheila. How like the nights when, close beside Nicoli, they had driven for hours... content simply to be alone, close to each other... seldom speaking, and yet in their hearts a perfect communion. At the thought of Nicoli, her mind rushed back to the boy beside her, to his arm that held her pressed to his side as they sped along the road.

Yes, she would be glad when the time came to go north. It would be best, for Derek was undoubtedly in love with her, and something must be done quickly to break the spell. After all, his youthful infatuation might pass away if she were gone. Sheila's thoughts were interrupted by the stopping of the car as it glided to a standstill. A feeling of panic swept over her.

The pressure of Derek's embrace tightened. "Sheila," he whispered. His warm young mouth found hers, crushing her lips passionately against his own feverish ones; then forsaking them, it sought eagerly the smooth white softness of her breast.

"Tell me you do love me. I'm so mad about you! I've wanted you so long, it seems. I want to feel your body close to mine—to know I possess all of you!" Derek's voice took on a harsh note. "Marry me tonight—now—I can't wait, darling, I can't!"

Sheila's answer was devoid of life as she endeavored to mask her impatience. "That's impossible, Derek, now and always impossible. I do care so much for you, but I could never love you as you want me to. I'm sorry—genuinely so—but that is the way it is." Raising her eyes to his face she questioned, "You do want me to be honest, don't you? We've been real comrades, and I couldn't be otherwise with you."

Dejectedly, "Yes, I do want the truth, Sheila, at any cost. I was a blind, impetuous fool to imagine for an instant that you could care for me in... that way." Then in a worried, anxious tone he pursued, "We can still be pals, can't we? You won't take that away from me?"

Sheila gripped the strong young hand. "Yes, we will always be friends, and pals."

The ride home was a silent one. There was nothing to say, it seemed. Sheila knew there was nothing she could say that would ease the anguish in the heart of the youth beside her. Words were so futile at such a time as this.

Home again, they made an attempt at the old familiarity as they bid each other good night... somehow, it could not be recaptured.

Sheila's heart was heavy as she walked upstairs; heavy because of the hurt in Derek's heart, heavy because of his kiss. No one else had kissed her since the day when Nicoli had come to her as she lay ill, and now, even though she knew she had not responded to his passionate lips, she felt as though something had been taken away from Nicoli. She had not wanted anyone else's caresses to come between the closeness of their embraces. She belonged utterly to the woman who waited for her in the apartment above—now and always.

Later, as she lay clasped tight in Nicoli's arms, feeling the warmth of the beloved form next to her own, a sense of a barrier known only to herself overwhelmed her. The caresses always given so freely heretofore were restrained. Somehow she could not abandon herself to the wild ecstasies of their love. The thoughts of Derek's mouth on her own and of his mad embraces persisted, widening the distance between her and the woman in whose trembling arms she lay. How could she accept the wealth of passion showered so freely upon her when within herself she felt that she had become besmirched, soiled, in that brief moment with Derek? It was torture to feel so far away from Nicoli—yet how to tell her... to hurt her when she loved her so? Gradually tears stole through Sheila's closed lashes. A storm of emotion swept swiftly across her being; sobs shook the slender silk-clad body.

Nicoli raised herself from the pillow and cradled Sheila closer to her. "What is it, darling? Won't you tell me?"

Between sobs the story of the evening with Derek was told, until at last with a burst of grief Sheila clung to her: "Don't you see I didn't ever want anyone to touch me? I've wished a thousand times that no one ever had—I've wanted to belong to you so completely."

Nicoli tenderly kissed the tear-filled eyes and wet cheeks, allowing her fingers to wander over the velvety petal-like skin of Sheila's breast as she murmured comfortingly in her deep voice, "I know, my darling—and you do belong to me... just as much as if I had held you in my arms since the hour of your birth—you're mine, and I know that you don't want anyone else or need anyone else to make you happy. There isn't anything to worry about, baby. Now..."

Sheila's, arms drew Nicoli down to her, and all of the sadness of the past few minutes was forgotten in the flood of inexpressible delectation that engulfed them.

* * *

Early the following morning Sheila and Nicoli were reclining on the beach outside their gaily painted cabana. The ocean was placid, and except for an occasional whitecap, extraordinarily tranquil. Overhead, white fleecy clouds drifted lazily in the azure sky. The water had been deliciously refreshing and just chill enough to send the blood tingling through their veins. Later in the day the warm southern sun would be riding high in the heavens and the water would be warm to the body —then one would incline toward drowsiness and the sands would be crowded with devotees of the sun-tan craze. Now it was peaceful, quiet and serene, its very solitude lending it additional beauty.

"Isn't it glorious?" Nicoli asked from her position on the sand. "I wish I might stay for hours."

"Well, why not, darling?" Sheila questioned. "After all, there's no reason why you shouldn't."

Nicoli straightened up and looked at Sheila as she lay outstretched beside her. "But there is! I intend to work. You see, I've been thinking that we can leave for New York day after tomorrow if I work all day today—I'm practically finished, anyway."

Something in Nicoli's voice caused Sheila to remember the events of the preceding evening. Were they the cause of this sudden decision to leave a few days ahead of time? Blessed Nicoli—always thinking of her—now she was endeavoring to help her out of a difficult situation by taking her away, no doubt fearful of a recurrence of last evening's happenings. Taking her away even at the sacrifice of her own plans—

"That will be great, Nicoli! I'm anxious to go back to work. It will be perfect with you directing me again. I'll love it," Sheila's fingers brushed Nicoli's dark hair lightly. "Do you remember our other rehearsals, dearest—how mad we were about each other, how desperately we tried to hide it even from ourselves?"

Before Nicoli could answer, a cheerful voice broke into their thoughts.

"Come on, lazybones—how about a swim? I'll race you out to the raft." Paula flung the challenge at Sheila as she stood boyishly, feet apart, looking down at them, her trim young figure clad in brief navy blue shorts and a brilliant red kerchief tied around her upper body for a top piece.

"All right—let's go!" Sheila sprang up and pulled her cap on hurriedly.

Swimming with masterful strokes, Paula soon outdistanced her companion, and when a moment later Sheila reached the platform, she was sitting perched on its swaying top, laughing gaily at Sheila's breathlessness as she climbed up and relaxed full length on the warm, damp surface.

"You just can't take it," she chided. Then more seriously, "You haven't forgotten our luncheon date today, have you, Sheila?"

Sheila sat up. "Of course not. Pick me up at one, Paula; I'll be ready."

"I really can't believe that I am actually going to have an afternoon alone with you. It seems that I've tried for weeks, but always Derek and the crowd have barged in on us."

Sheila caught the same peculiar inflection that once before she had noticed in Paula's voice, and again she asked herself the reason for its presence. Dismissing it from her mind, Sheila jumped up. "Let's go back, Paula. I want to spend a few minutes with Nicoli before she goes home to write."

Paula turned her eyes away from the sea. "You're very fond of her, aren't you?"

Sheila's face flushed under the girl's intent gaze. But quickly she lifted her head and looked levelly at Paula as she answered, "Yes, I am—terribly so."

With an abrupt "Let's go," Paula dived off the float, and with steady rhythmic strokes started for the shore. Confusion crowded Sheila's thoughts as she slowly followed.

Nicoli watched them as they swam toward her, and a moment later, when Paula emerged, she called gaily, "The winner!"

Paula joined her and dropped to the sand. "Got a cigarette, Nicoli? I need one of those celebrated "lifts'."

As they sat smoking Sheila joined them, and almost at once Paula flipped her cigarette aside. "I must be off—see you later."

Nicoli's eyes followed Paula's athletic figure down the beach. Mentally she noted the girl's broad shoulders, her erect carriage, and the decisive tilt of her young head.

"She's a strange girl," she mused aloud. "Have you noticed it, darling?"

"Why I—er—no, I haven't, particularly," answered Sheila, at the same time wondering why she failed to tell Nicoli of her own impressions.

Conversation lagged, and for a time both lay basking in the warmth of the sun which now had definitely started its upward climb.

An hour later, when Nicoli roused herself and prepared to leave, Sheila surprised her by saying, "I'll go too—I have to dress." In answer to Nicoli's questioning look she added, "I'm having lunch with Paula."

"Oh!" Nicoli's exclamation was barely audible.

* * *

Sheila was standing by an open window when Paula drove up and vigorously sounded the horn. As she turned to go downstairs, she paused for an instant for a final hurried glance at herself in a long glass. The blondness of her hair was accentuated by the blue of the tailored jacket that topped her white sports skirt. Tied about her throat was a white ascot tie, and on one side of her head, set at a saucy angle, was a tiny white beret. Crossing to Nicoli's door she opened it, but seeing her rapt in her work, closed it quietly.

"Where to, Paula?" Sheila asked as she settled herself in the car.

"I thought we'd drive out to a smart little place I know on the beach for lunch; then we can decide later what we want to do. All right?"

Sheila nodded, and the roadster shot forward.

"Where's Derek today?"

"I left him at home, Sheila, apparently rather low; looked like a bad case of love to me. He wasn't flying very high last night. I met him as he came in and had a nightcap with him—and he seemed dreadfully upset." Then as if a sudden thought had come to her, Paula asked, "Wasn't he with you last evening?"

"Yes—he was. Oh, Paula, I'm so sorry—truly so—but I had no idea Derek was in love with me. If I had known, I would never have allowed myself to spend so much time with him, even with the crowd. I didn't realize."

"I know—but sometimes love comes so stealthily that we are not aware of its presence until it is too late... then—" Paula's statement was broken by their arrival at the beach club.

As they sat over their lunch, Sheila remarked casually, "We're leaving day after tomorrow. Nicoli is about finished with the play and our vacation days are over. It's work for me from now on."

Paula's young face clouded. "It will be dreadful with you gone. I'll miss you so! We've had such happy times together, and now what will there be to look forward to?"

"Nonsense! There will be dances and parties a-plenty to keep you more than occupied, and before you know it, you will have completely forgotten there ever was a Sheila Case."

"But that's just it—I won't forget, now or ever." Paula's voice dropped to a mere whisper. "You see, I love you."

Sheila was taken aback by the words that confirmed so thoroughly her recent vague misgivings. What was there to do? What could she say in answer to Paula's earnest avowal of love? Words would not come, yet she knew she must make some answer quickly.

Finally, "Let's leave here," she said. "I want to tell you something."

Neither spoke again until the car was parked facing the ocean on a seldom used portion of the road. Sheila put her arm around the boyish figure and drew her close.

"Paula, I want you to know how very much I do care for you, how very dear you are to me—I am only sorry that I can never offer you anything more than friendship." Sheila hesitated. "You see ... there's Nicoli. Our lives are bound together and have been for years. It will never be any different."

Throughout Sheila's conversation Paula had steadfastly gazed ahead at the seemingly endless expanse of open water. Now, as Sheila finished, her lips quivered and large tears flowed from her eyes—tears that she fought stubbornly to keep in check. With a tiny cry she turned, and putting her arms around Sheila's neck, cried broken-heartedly. Her broken sentences came tumbling out between sobs.

"I knew all along—I was sure—I couldn't help loving you —I didn't want to, but I do, so much. Oh, why—why was I made this way—only to be denied the one person I want more than anything? I've been so miserable watching Derek with you—seeing him hold you to him as you danced, hearing your laughter; then seeing you with Nicoli—seeing your love for her in your eyes, knowing almost surely that I could never mean anything to you. I can't stand it—I can't—I won't!" Paula continued to cry heart-brokenly.

Sheila pondered what to do, how best to help the girl who clung to her so pitifully. At last she said, "Paula, you think you love me now, yes; but you are only a child compared with me, and soon you will realize that what you felt for me was only fascination. You're attracted because of my work in the theater—because you have heard my name in connection with shows and Broadway. It is the glitter of it all that appeals, not I. Why, in a few weeks you will have erased me from your thoughts entirely, and once more I'll be just a name you will see in the theatrical news with no personal meaning whatsoever. This is what you will do—this is what you must do. It can't be any other way."

"I'm not a child, and I do love you!" Paula insisted vehemently.

Sheila laughed. "You're a baby—you don't know the meaning of the word 'love'."

At what apparently was Sheila's heartless attitude, Paula brushed her tears away, and reaching over, switched on the ignition.

"I might have known you wouldn't understand, but I didn't think you would laugh at me."

Sheila wanted terribly to take the girl in her arms and tell her that she had not really been laughing, but only trying to make her angry so she could forget her more easily—but that would only make the situation more difficult, she knew; therefore she remained silent.

As they drove Sheila noted the defiant tilt of Paula's chin and the smouldering anger in her eyes.

"Where are we going?" she asked at last.

"Derek and some of his friends are going to be over at the Surf Club this afternoon—they should be there now—and I thought it might be the proper time to get beautifully plastered."

"All right, Paula—let's go," Sheila replied. At least the girl's mind would be occupied with her friends, and thoughts of herself would necessarily be pushed into the background.

Paula swung the roadster into the graveled drive of the exclusive bath club. A trim attendant in spotless livery stepped quickly to the car door and opened it. Sheila stepped out. Paula snatched her bag and gloves from the seat, and with a defiant gesture flung open the door beside her and bounded lightly to the ground.

"Has my brother arrived yet ?" she inquired.

The man smiled courteously. "Mr. Van Pelt and his party are in the bar, Miss Van Pelt."

Paula nodded. "All right, Jensen; thank you."

Her voice was brittle when she spoke again. "Come along, Sheila—we'll find them." She led the way through the wide doorway.

The Surf Club was a brilliant place, the gay tropical frocks of the women and the bright splashes of the blossoming plants making it a vivid pool of shifting color. In and about the swimming pool was a noisy crowd of girls and youths, and in the club house, gathered at the bar and seated at the scattered tables, were lively groups drinking and laughing, while on the small dance floor couples attired in bathing suits swayed to the music of the stringed orchestra which played in the patio just outside.

As Paula and Sheila entered, Derek rose unsteadily from a table near the door. "Well, look who's here! Waiter, two more chairs for my table. Come on, Sis—introduce Sheila to the gang."

There followed good natured acknowledgments and the oft-heard question, "What are you drinking?"

Sheila dropped into the chair Derek had pulled close to his own. There were drinks, laughter, stories of gay escapades, and more drinks—always, it seemed to Sheila, more drinks. Her eyes wandered around the table. How did they—how could they—withstand the strain of the rapid pace at which they lived? Where was it leading them? Where would it take Paula at last? Paula, with seemingly unlimited time and money, and a desire at the moment to drink herself into a state of forgetfulness. What a pity Fate had showered her with so many of the blessings of this world and then had somehow in a moment of cruel jesting burdened her with a soul from a world of twilight and shadows—a world that, despite her money and position, would never lose its tenacious grip upon her sensibilities. Once awakened, as it now was, the persistent voice within her would prod her relentlessly onward in her search for its mate, until all chance for a normal life within her rightful circle would vanish, and somewhere outside the pale of her own social caste she would find at last the elusive something she sought, while standing close beside it demanding payment would be the gaunt, hollow-eyed figure of degradation.

Sheila shuddered and took her eyes abruptly away from Paula's flashing ones. Yes, she decided, there could be no middle ground for the girl before her. Hers was a reckless nature—the type that in a few brief years would make of her an outcast... twisted clay to be avoided and ostracized by those she now called friends.

The afternoon wore along. Conversation became louder. Derek became more and more garrulous, while Paula sat quietly, following one drink with another.

While the rest were otherwise diverted, Sheila laid her hand on Derek's arm with "Please, Derek, no more. This isn't like you."

Taking her hand in his, he leaned close to her, and in what he thought was a whisper said, "I can't help it; don't you see I can't? I love you too much—please, won't you tell me you didn't mean what you said? I want you so—I can't go on without you!"

Paula's hysterical laugh claimed the attention of the others as she sprang to her feet, "That's funny!" she screamed shrilly. "Two fools in the same family! So you can't go on without her, eh, Derek?" Her voice rose to a higher pitch. "Well, neither can I. Do you hear—neither can I! But we will, because we haven't either of us a chance. Has she told you why? Has she? Well, I will! She's in love with—"

Paula's wild recital was cut short by the resounding slap of Sheila's hand against her cheek.

Sheila had sat quietly with hands clenched in her lap as Paula's words tumbled out. Then, as the mention of Nicoli's name seemed imminent, she had jumped to her feet blind with rage at the thought of her beloved's name being bandied about in careless drunken conversation, and had slapped Paula. As Paula fell back into her chair, Sheila, white with fury, snatched her bag from the table and hurriedly left.

Nicoli looked up from her writing as Sheila walked in, tossed her hat and bag on the bed, and came toward her.

"Back so soon, Sheila? I rather thought you'd be gone until around seven."

Sheila forced herself to be casual. "There didn't seem to be a great deal to do. We had lunch, then drove to the Surf Club and joined Derek and some friends of his."

Nicoli's face clouded. Sheila, failing to notice it, went on. "We stayed there a few hours—and then I decided I wanted to come home, so here I am."

Nicoli rose and took Sheila's hands in her own. "I'm glad you did. I've been so lonesome this afternoon..."

Sheila broke in. "Can't we stay home tonight, darling— just the two of us? It's been so long, and I'm so tired of being away from you. Can't you let your work go just this once for me?"

"There isn't any work, dearest," Nicoli announced. "I finished it this afternoon."

Sheila put her arms around Nicoli, and brushing the top of her head with her lips, exclaimed, "I'm so glad! Now— from now on—I shan't have to be away from you a minute. Can we start home tomorrow?"

"Yes. We'll order dinner sent in; then we can pack tonight and leave early in the morning. All right?"

"Perfect," Sheila answered as she turned away and began to disrobe.

After dinner they worked for several hours packing trunks and bags, stripping the rooms of the numerous knickknacks picked up on their trip.

Sheila paused in the act of folding the white sports dress she was preparing to place in the already nearly-filled trunk. "You know, Nicoli, I've been so entirely wrapped up in our happiness that I completely forgot to call Jo Trent before we came south. I sent her her check the day we left, but somehow my intention to phone her slipped my mind. I really must do it when we get back—she was good to me, you know, and I'm afraid I've appeared most ungrateful."

"Don't worry, darling. We'll soon be home again—then you can call Jo and explain. She'll understand, I am sure," Nicoli assured Sheila.

Finally the last bag was closed, and Sheila sank exhausted to the bed. Nicoli turned from the trunk she had been locking, and walking over, dropped down beside her.

"Tired?"

'Terribly so, darling, but I'm glad to be starting home." Sheila stifled a yawn. "I don't mean by that that I haven't enjoyed every minute of our vacation, because I have—but now I'm anxious to get back and start to work again."

"I know," Nicoli replied. "I feel the same way. I can scarcely wait to see how the show will shape up."

Sheila sat up. Her face took on an earnest expression.

"Speaking of the show, Nicoli—I've been worried about myself. You know—whether or not I can do it justice. It's been a long time since I've done anything—and then too I was pretty terrible in my last play."

"You haven't a thing on earth to worry about," Nicoli assured her. "My guess is that your work will be better than it's ever been. You must remember you were unhappy then, and your mind was in such an upheaval that naturally you couldn't give good performances. No one could under those conditions."

Sheila sighed. "Things were pretty black for a time, darling —you've no idea..."

"You must forget all that," Nicoli admonished gently. "You will forget it, I know. Just wait and see—the minute we start rehearsals you'll be your old self again."

"I hope so," breathed Sheila.

"As soon as the show opens, I'll scout around and find a place suitable for us to live when we are ready to leave New York. Have you any idea where you would like to go, darling? What sort of house do you want?"

Sheila's eyes brightened. "I'd love a place like the Alden home, Nicoli. I never was more truly contented in my life than during those days we spent there. It was so beautiful—so real—and... it was there you came back to me."

"Yes, and I came to you with the determination never to leave you. My life was so lonely, so bitterly empty, without you."

Memories of those gray days flooded Nicoli's thoughts anew: days that had seemed eons long, nights each one of which had been an eternity of longing. How useless her arms had been, how empty without Sheila to hold in them. How hungry her mouth had been for her kisses.

"Yes, I know—life is hollow to me too when I'm away from you." Sheila drew Nicoli close to her. I love you so much. I never want to live if I have to lose you. I couldn’t bear it alone again." Her voice dropped to a whisper. I only pray God will take me first...”

Nicoli pressed her hand over Sheila's mouth. “You mustn’t say such things. You are all of life to me. Without you there could be nothing─-without you I wouldn't want to live.”

PART SEVEN

Dust

Love, how far can you go?

Through all light and all shade

Past all things made,

And deep beyond death. After these tears

And the failure of breath:

In other spheres,

In other years,

Deep beyond,

Deep beyond,

Deep beyond death.” —Archibald Rutledge.

New York: A living, breathing symphony played on the instruments of human activity and directed from above by the baton of the Master. Its melodic phrases composed of myriads of tones—tones that emanate from the measured tread of millions of feet as they walk through its movements: tapping feet, running feet, dragging, trudging feet, and the broken time of crippled feet. Rising above all are the tympani and drums which are the clanging of bells, the throbbing of traffic, shrill whistles of policemen, and the steady hum of countless motors intermingled with a continual monotone of human voices all blended into a mighty crescendo which mounts to a thunderous climax.

* * *

Nicoli and Sheila soon became a part of the rushing throng of the great metropolis. There was much to be done. While Sheila straightened their effects at the apartment, Nicoli worked for long periods at her office, interviewing performers, selecting a cast, and attending to the numerous small details essential to the launching of a new show. There was the choosing of scenery, with hours spent poring over plans with the artist; interviews with the press, and negotiations for a theater. Evenings were spent going over Sheila's role with her, instilling in her mind the character she was to play.

At last Nicoli called the first rehearsal. The stage was crowded with members of the cast, for the most part seated quietly, manuscript in hand, glancing over their typewritten lines.

Sheila stood talking to a newspaper reporter. Chick Everitt looked admiringly at the radiant woman before him. "It's great to have you back, Miss Case. Broadway has missed you. Tell me—how do you like the show? Do you like your part, and are you glad to be back under Nicoli's direction?"

"The answer to all your questions is 'yes'—decidedly yes. I'm thrilled over my return and more than happy to have Nicoli directing me."

"I shall want pictures, Miss Case. How about taking them this afternoon, so I can run the story tomorrow? We've had regular photographs along with the things we have run so far, but I want more intimate shots; you know, the star at home, and so forth."

"Very well. My apartment, then, at four. Will that suit?"

“That's on the Drive, isn't it?" Everitt questioned. "Same address as Nicoli's?'

"Yes, that's it."

Nicoli's voice rang out. "Everybody on stage, please."

Work on the new play began, with Nicoli seated at a table down stage, manuscript before her, her deep tones vibrating through the still theater as she gave to the actors a brief outline of the characters they were to play.

Sheila's throat tightened as she listened, and her eyes remained steadfastly on the woman so intent on her work. It was good to be back in the theater, good to hear the crisp, decisive phrases that were Nicoli's. Again she felt like a child waiting and eager to do as she was told, her heart warmed with the love of a student for a distinguished master. The hours flew, and Nicoli's voice was mingled with those of the men and women present reading their lines. Thus the new play came to life. Thus the artistry that had been Sheila's returned.

* * *

"Hold it, Miss Case."

Chick Everitt stood looking through his camera at Sheila, who reclined gracefully in a spacious chair before the fireplace, her expressive hands holding a book in whose contents she apparently was deeply interested. The click of the shutter broke the silence. Then, "That will be all, Miss Case—thanks. I think we have some good ones—just the right personal touch."

Sheila tossed the book to a table close at hand and rose. "I hope so. I'm afraid I've been a poor subject—you see, we worked hard at the theater today, and I am tired."

"Don't worry about that," Everitt assured her. "We never have any trouble photographing you. If you will excuse me, you're always lovely."

"That's kind of—" The ringing of the telephone interrupted her speech. "Excuse me, will you?" Sheila asked as she moved to answer it.

"Don't bother about me, Miss Case. I'll get my things together and be on my way," the reporter replied as she left the room.

Sheila lifted the telephone from its cradle with a blithe "Hello—Sheila Case speaking." But the blitheness faded quickly away as she heard the voice of Allison's attorney on the wire.

"Miss Case, this is Harrison Blair speaking." He seemed to hesitate as though he must choose his words with care.

Sheila grew faint. What could he possibly want with her, unless it was to tell her that Allison had passed away? She had written Blair from time to time, but always his answer had been the same: "Mr. Graham is getting along as well as can be expected, and we are seeing to his meager wants, but his physicians hold out no hope for his recovery."

Then of late had come the news that Allison's mind had taken a turn for the worse and that he had become dangerously violent.

Sheila endeavored to steady herself. "Oh, yes, Mr. Blair— what is it?"

"Miss Case, I have just received distressing news. They telephoned me from Hillcrest a moment ago that Mr. Graham had escaped some time during the morning. I thought you should know. We are of course making every effort to find him, but in view of what happened in Connecticut, I think you should be doubly careful not to go about alone until we have found him."

Fear gripped Sheila's heart. Her hand clenched the telephone tighter. "But, Mr. Blair, I don't believe Allison would know where to find me, and besides, he probably thinks I am—" she hesitated—"dead."

"You forget your pictures have been in the papers numerous times in the past few days, along with stories on your new show—in fact, those same stories may be responsible for his action now," Blair reminded her. "I don't want to frighten you unduly, but you must be careful. I'll call you the moment anything develops. In the meantime, let me urge you again to be careful."

"I will, Mr. Blair," Sheila promised. "And do let me hear from you."

Sheila replaced the telephone with shaking fingers and dropped into her chair limp and spent. How to tell Nicoli— for tell her she must. Nicoli would know she was troubled; they were much too close in mind for her to hope to conceal—her perturbation. "And Nicoli would not like the idea of my being in possible danger without her having been warned," Sheila told herself. "But she should not be bothered now, when she is so busy."

Nicoli's footsteps in the hall outside roused her from her thoughts. With the superb artistry that was hers, Sheila forced herself to throw off her misgivings. Yes, that was what she must do—Nicoli's mind must not be upset now in the midst of production. She must hide her feelings somehow and appear her usual self.

Sheila opened the door just as Nicoli turned the key in the lock.

"Hello, darling," Nicoli said as she kissed Sheila. "All finished with the pictures?"

"Yes; Chick left just a moment ago. He said he got some good ones. I hope so—I really didn't feel up to it; however, he seemed pleased with them."

"We have worked hard today, I know," Nicoli replied. "But I think we're really going to have something worth while. I was more than pleased with the way rehearsal went, and for once I believe the cast can remain as it is. There didn't seem to be a weak spot in it today."

Sheila followed Nicoli into her bedroom and curled up on the bed where, cigarette in hand, she remained while Nicoli undressed. Then with an effort at gaiety she asked, "What's the program for tonight?"

"Whatever you like—any suggestions?"

"Yes, darling; I want to spend the evening here—just we two."

Sheila rose from the bed and crossed to where Nicoli stood brushing her short hair and put her arms around her. "I love our hours here together. I never tire of them. I sometimes think I would be content just to forget everything else."

If only she might do just that! What perfect peace of mind she could find in Nicoli's arms...

A few moments later the only sound in the room was that of the spraying water as Nicoli went about her shower. Sheila sat on the small silken covered bench before her dressing table, deftly applying bright liquid polish to her long pointed finger nails, endeavoring to keep the slender hands from trembling. She tried heroically to keep her mind from dwelling upon the lawyer's call, but without success. Repeatedly her thoughts reverted back to his warning.

"Is there really any danger? Would Allison seek me out to do me harm?"

Memories of the days when she had meant so much to him came back. How little she had dreamed then that one day he might attempt to take her life. It was fantastic—a horrible nightmare. The irony of it all struck Sheila. There had been times when life had meant little to her, when death would have been welcome. It had been so that day in the woods when Allison had attacked her. But now—Nicoli's love was hers to keep always; Nicoli's life was to be spent close to her side. Sheila sighed. There was so much to live for!

The evening passed all too quickly. Evenings had a way of doing just that when they were together. They lounged about the apartment comfortably clad in pajamas and talked—current events, happenings in theatrical circles, details for the opening of the show.

Sheila, worn out from the day's long rehearsal and hours of fittings at the costumer's, lay stretched at full length on the couch.

Nicoli laid aside the Variety she had been glancing through. "I expect we can open in about three more weeks—provided of course that nothing unforeseen happens."

"Do you intend to open it in Atlantic City as you said?" Sheila asked.

"Yes—then I can take a look at it before we open the run here, and make any changes that might prove necessary."

Sheila propped herself up on one elbow. "Have you ever stopped to think, darling, that if this show is as successful as The Woman Alone we may not be able to get away for two years?"

"Yes, I've thought of that possibility," Nicoli rejoined, "but then this time when we leave there'll be no coming back. We'll be finished with show business—all we'll have to think about will be our lives together."

Nicoli drew Sheila closer to her. "That's all that counts now, anyway. I just want to be able to live each day with you by my side, and to know that I'll never have to lose you again." Her voice took on an added tenderness. "Life without you, Sheila, isn't worth the effort it takes to live it."

Long after Nicoli's even breathing told her she was asleep. Sheila lay with eyes wide open staring into the darkness of the room, the words ringing in her ears. What would Nicoli do if she knew? "If only Blair will have news for me in the morning," she told herself. "I don't see how I can go on acting before Nicoli, letting her think we are secure in our plans. Yet how can I tell her and disrupt her peace of mind at a time like this, when she needs to be at her best?"

Sheila's tortured nerves kept her awake for hours. Over and over she asked herself, "Am I being foolish, or is there any real danger?" Finally, at daybreak she drifted off into a fitful slumber from which she was awakened, in what seemed only a few minutes, by Nicoli's cheerful voice.

"Wake up, Sheila—breakfast is almost ready." The fragrant aroma of bacon and coffee drifted in to Sheila's nostrils. She sat up in bed, with eyes still heavy with sleep. "What time is it, Nicoli?"

"Nearly ten, and I called an eleven o'clock rehearsal—no time to spare."

As they sat eating breakfast, Nicoli turned to the morning papers. As usual, the theater news claimed her attention first. Folding the paper at the desired place, she handed it to Sheila.

"Here's Chick's story, darling. It's a good one, and the cut is excellent too. You may have been tired, but this picture certainly doesn't show it."

"A good make-up is the answer to that," Sheila remarked, and took the paper. The large photograph of herself met her eyes at once but held them only for an instant, for above the picture was the caption "Sheila Case at Home." Her glance shifted to the story below. Yes, there it was, just as she had feared.

"In an interview yesterday with Miss Case in her richly appointed apartment at the Sheridan-Plaza, the star said, 'It is with a great deal of...' "

Last night, as she had tossed fitfully, she had remembered the incident of the afternoon—the pictures, the interview. Her first impulse had been to try to reach Chick and ask him to "kill" the story, but upon second thought she had realized that doing so would probably awaken Nicoli and arouse her curiosity—and once she was questioned, Sheila knew she could not lie. Her hands shook as she handed the paper across the table to Nicoli.

"Chick is always kind to me. As usual, it's a fine story." She dropped her eyes quickly to her plate lest the fear in her heart be mirrored in them.

"There's one sure thing," she thought, "if Allison wants to find me, he will have no trouble!"

The day dragged by at the theater. Sheila, her mind in a turmoil, waded through the long scenes scarcely seeing the printed lines she read. At last there was a break in the rehearsal, and she rushed out to call Harrison Blair, only to hear him say, "I'm sorry, Miss Case, but we haven't heard a thing. I have been in touch with Hillcrest several times today. However, I'll be sure to let you know the minute I have any news." With leaden footsteps she returned to the theater. For nearly a week Sheila went about her daily routine striving to appear her usual self, yet always carrying the burden of worry and fear in her heart. She stayed close to Nicoli, going everywhere with her, remaining in the theater when she was no longer needed, while Nicoli worked with other members of the company. Nicoli's gaze was drawn to her now as she sat patiently in one of the seats in the front row of the semi-dark theater.

"You look worn out, Sheila. Why don't you go home? I shan't be long, and you need some rest. I think maybe I've been a hard taskmaster."

Sheila smiled faintly. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to wait for you."

Nicoli looked lovingly at her; then turning back to the stage, said, "All right, let's take that scene again!"

* * *

"I'm dreadfully tired," breathed Sheila when at last they left the theater and walked slowly toward the garage where Nicoli kept her car.

"I know, darling," Nicoli answered sympathetically. "It has been a more or less trying day for you, and after all, the part is a lengthy and difficult one. But soon it will all be over—just this one season, dearest."

Sheila's hand tightened its grip on Nicoli's arm. "It will be perfect! We'll really begin to live then, and oh, Nicoli, I do so want to live all of my life for you!"

Sheila's dark eyes grew serious as her thoughts went back to the warning note in Harrison Blair's voice when he had told her of Allison's escape. Yes, she would be glad to get away, especially if Allison were not found. Once away from the theater she would not be such an easy target should his disordered brain still be possessed of a desire to do her harm. But here in the city where her name shortly would be blazoned from the electric signs she would be easy to find—there simply couldn't be any escape, if Allison really wanted to find her. A cold chill swept over her. She shivered.

Nicoli's voice roused Sheila from her thoughts. "Here we are, darling. I'll have you home in a few minutes. We'll have a bite to eat, and then you're going to bed."

Nicoli's expert hands eased the roadster from the garage into the stream of cars. Soon they had left the congested theater area and were speeding along the avenue toward home, with Sheila's head nestled against Nicoli's shoulder.

"Darling," Nicoli's voice broke the silence. "I've something to tell you that I think will please you and will perhaps raise you out of at least a degree of your weariness."

Sheila sat up, and in the expectant manner of a child inquired, "What is it? Tell me!"

"I've bought the Alden place for us. We'll go there as soon as the season is over—and this time it will be our very own."

"Nicoli, you darling!" Sheila cried excitedly. "It's marvelous! There isn't any place on earth I'd rather live. Oh, it's too grand—I can scarcely wait to leave. How did you happen to get it?"

"I thought you'd feel that way," Nicoli replied, gratified at the manner in which Sheila had received her news. "So I've kept in touch with Mrs. Mason. She wrote me just a few days ago that the house and furnishings were to be sold immediately —I opened negotiations with Mrs. Alden for the purchase of it, and closed the deal yesterday. Mrs. Mason is there now, and will stay on with us."

"I can't believe it—it seems like a dream," Sheila continued. "I've thought so often of the days we spent together there and loved it so. How can I tell you how much I've wanted to go back? And now to think that we will really be there—it's all too much like a fairy tale! Darling, it's perfect."

Nicoli brought the car to a standstill before the wide entrance of the Sheridan-Plaza. "Run along, now, Sheila; I'll put the car up."

Sheila jumped lightly from the car, her eyes flashing with happiness and the excitement of Nicoli's news. She turned back to take Nicoli's hand in her own. "Do hurry, Nicoli! I've a million things to say to you."

With a tiny squeeze Sheila released Nicoli's hand and walked briskly through the doorway and across the lobby to the waiting elevator.

"How precious of Nicoli to decide on the Alden place for us," she thought as the car carried her upward. "How like her to choose the one place she knew I wanted above all others." Now at last life would straighten out for them: they would have their home and years together surrounded by the things they both loved. Yes, life would really be heavenly. They would forget everything else and live only for each other.

A glow of happiness warmed her heart; yet, when a moment later she emerged on the eleventh floor she hesitated. For some inexplicable reason her joyousness had vanished abruptly—she felt suddenly a vague uneasiness at entering the apartment alone. Why hadn't she waited for Nicoli ? But why this capricious bit of presentiment? True, she had been hiding her fears for the past week. "That's the reason," she told herself. "It's just that I have been bottling up all this worry, trying to hide it from Nicoli. I am just being silly."

She shook herself slightly, inserted the key in the lock, and with thoughts of their new home once more flooding her brain, she mechanically fixed the latch that Nicoli might enter. Walking through the velvety blackness of the tiny hall she stepped into the living room, her hand seeking the light switch on the wall beside the door.

As her fingers found the button and flooded the room with light, firm hands gripped her throat, forcing back the cry that tried in vain to break through. A maniacal laugh broke the stillness as sinewy fingers tightened their vise-like hold with fatal intent on the body of the woman to whom life had only a few minutes earlier promised so much. Sheila fought desperately to escape, but to no avail. Her thoughts revolved in a crazy whirlpool as she struggled against the darkness that was gradually stealing over her, numbing her senses. She was only vaguely conscious of the wild mutterings of the man whose voice she knew too well. Above that sound clamored her own thoughts, calling for Nicoli, summoning her despairingly.

Time was getting... so... short. "Nicoli—I need you... now."

The pressure of the death-giving hands tightened. Sheila made a last feeble attempt to release herself—then her limp body sank into oblivion.

An exultant cry burst from Allison's lips. With a triumphant thrust he threw her lifeless body from him.

At that moment Nicoli stepped through the door. Her eyes took in the full horror of the scene—then a ringing cry broke from her lips. She rushed forward. Allison turned quickly toward the French doors which promised the only means of exit, and running wildly across the room, he flung himself through them.

There was a frantic shriek as he realized too late that the doors led to the narrow, low-railed balcony overlooking the Drive; but the force with which he had rushed through sent him hurtling downward.

Shrill cries arose from the crowds in the avenue. Automobiles ground to a screaming stop, drivers climbed hurriedly out, pedestrians surged toward the spot, and voices were raised, cacophonous in excitement. The sound of a wailing siren, the ambulance. Internes and police forced back the unruly, curious crowds to make way for the crushed still form on its narrow stretcher.

* * *

Far above the confusion of the street Nicoli, after a hurried call for help, sank to the floor beside the lifeless figure of Sheila.

"Why did I call for help?" she asked herself dully as she held the loved body clasped tightly in her arms. What need to summon anyone when already the misty hood of death had fallen over the lovely fair head that lay so still and quiet in her embrace. How futile to attempt to call back the spirit that had so irrevocably been torn from the world... the spirit that perhaps now knew her grief and wanted so sorely to comfort her.

Nicoli's arms tightened. Her tear-blinded eyes gazed steadfastly at Sheila's closed ones. If only they might look into her own once more! If only she might read again in their sombre depths the love she had found there in life. If only the full lips could part and her ears might hear the tender tones of Sheila's low, musical voice.

Nicoli's broken sobs rent the quietness of the rooms. Each second became an eternity of sorrow as her dazed mind dwelled upon the lost sweetness of their lives together. Gone forever were the dreams of their happiness—destroyed for all time. Only memories would remain—haunting memories mingling with the dust of the empty years to come: years when she would live in a sphere of her own, surrounded by the thoughts of the love that had once given her life—a love whose loss had now created for her a living death.

Tears flowed unrestrained down her cheeks. Convulsive sobs racked her. She murmured over and over, "My darling... my Sheila... why did you have to be taken from me when I love you so? Why, God? Why?"

* * *

The deep voice of the minister reading the concluding words of the solemn service struck against Nicoli's unresponsive ears—audible, meaningless sounds, comfortless words.

Her burning eyes dropped again to the jade box which lay clasped in feverish hands in her lap... the box she had given Sheila to contain her jewels, and which now had come back to her to contain her only jewel of great value... the ashes of the woman she loved.

THE END

Table of Contents

PART ONE Philip Rowan

PART TWO Nicoli

PART THREE Allison Graham

PART FOUR The Alden Place

PART FIVE Jo Trent

PART SIX Always

PART SEVEN Dust