The thought did not sadden him. Great passions were of the soul, and lasted throughout eternity. He would adore Hildegarde until the sun grew cold. Somewhere in some celestial sphere those other lovers lived out their spiritual destinies.
The youth in him would listen to no doctrine of annihilation. His blood was warm. Hope was his heritage. He felt that if Hildegarde were there, he could make her see things as he saw them. That nothing mattered in the whole wide world but youth and love and faith in life.
On the way home, he stopped at a neighbor's to get the cream for his mornings coffee. As he stood in the kitchen, an old newspaper was spread out on the table. His eye caught the headlines. . . . Sally's name! Winslow's! The whole thing was there in great black lines—little Sally had run away with Meriweather!
He asked for the paper and got it. He read the details sitting by his fire. Good work! Winslow had got what was coming to him!
He wondered what Hildegarde thought of it. He'd call her up in the morning. She must have thought his silence strange under the circumstances. And he'd wire to Merry.
When he went to bed he found it hard to sleep. He had set up a cot in the screened porch, and the moonlight washed over him.
When at last he drifted into slumber, he began to dream. At first the thing was nebulous, vague. He saw forms floating as in a fog. Then, all at once, as if a strong wind had blown the forms away, he was aware of a vast blue space, and of a voice crying, "Crispin,
