colored, until she could look coolly at Dick with no further urge of the pity that had intermittently ached her heart for days.

She was proud of him — a goodly, eye-filling figure of a man to any woman; but she no longer felt sorry for him. They were right. It was a game. The race was to the swift, the battle to the strong. They had run such races, fought such battles. Then why not she? And as she continued to look, that self-query became reiterant.

They were not anchorites, these two men. Liberal-lived they must have been in that past out of which, like mysteries, they had come to her. They had had the days and nights that women were denied — women such as she. As for Dick, beyond all doubt — even had she heard whispers — there had been other women in that wild