He turned to speak to her in the half light and found her curled up in

the corner with her soft cheek resting against the cushions. Her attitude

was one of utter weariness, but she smiled without opening her eyes as

she nestled closer against the rough leather.

"Tired, peach-bud?" he asked softly. One of the gifts of the high gods to

David Kildare was a voice with a timbre suitable to the utmost

tenderness, when the occasion required.

"Yes," answered Phoebe drowsily, "but so happy! It was all lovely,

David." Her pink-palmed hand lay relaxed on her knee. David lifted it

cautiously in both his strong warm ones and bent over it, his heart

ahammer with trepidation. For as a general thing neither the environment

nor his mood had much influence in the softening way on Phoebe's cool

aloofness, but this once some sympathetic chord must have vibrated in her

heart for she clasped her fingers around his and received the caress on

their pink tips with opening eyes that smiled with a hint of tenderness.

"David," she said with a low laugh, "I'm too tired to be stern with you

tonight, but I'll hold you responsible to-morrow--for everything. Here we

are; do see if that red-headed devil is sitting on the door-step and tell

him that there is--no--more copy--if I _am_ a half-column short. And,

David," she drew their clasped hands nearer and laid her free one over

both his as the car drew up to the curb, "you--are--a--dear! Here's my

key in my muff. To-morrow at five? I don't know--you will have to phone

me. Good night, and thank you--dear. Yes--good night again!"




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