oak tree. Now every one knows Richard Furlong's picture called-Romance. It is not so many years ago since it passed into the possession of the French Government. It is the same picture which that early morning he began with a blank white sheet of paper.

CHAPTER VII

The days of Dicky's love-making came and went. Their passing was so swift he could not mark their going. It was autumn again and the oak leaves were red before he could believe the summer had really gone.

They had been alone a great deal together. Dorothy would accompany him long distances into the country to sit beside him while he sketched. His energy for work then was uncontrolled. Yet during all that time he had never touched her hand again or said one word of what had passed when they were alone together in the oak tree.

For long hours at night, Dorothy would lie awake with wondering mind. She loved. She was content with that. In the shallows of her heart she believed that Dicky loved her. He kept her closely with him wherever he went. But in the quiet depths of her consciousness -those depths which a woman only fathoms when her heart is beating in the stillness of the night-she was unsatisfied with the progress of their love. Something was needed to make it live. with that burning reality which love, meant to her. In what it lacked she could not guess. He might take her hand again; he might kiss it again as he had done that day in the oak tree. He might even kiss her lips. And when she thought of that, her heart throbbed wildly in her breast; she laid her head in faintness on her pillow, murmuring his name beneath her breath.

But none of these things did Dicky do. He had caught the first meaning of Romance and, as a boy when he catches the first butterfly of the year, feared as yet to touch it with his hands lest he should bruise its wings.

As surely as the day must vanish into night, the night unfold its darkness and set free the day once more, so surely did Dicky know that the moment would

come when Dorothy would be in his arms and his lips be seeking hers. So the thousand lovers proved their love. But his was like no other love the world had ever known. In those first days when he had seen Romance, such proof of love as this would have brought it all to earth. It was in the spirit of it he lived; in the spirit of it he worked with an untiring energy while Dorothy sat beside him, waiting for the hour when she might truly know.

And so the days of summer fell behind them into autumn. One night as she passed her daughter's room, Mrs. Leggatt stopped, hearing the sound of sobbing from within. She listened, making doubly sure. Then she turned the handle and went in.

"Dorothy?" she whispered.

The sobbing ceased.

"What is it?" she asked and knelt beside the bed. "What is it? Aren't you well?"

A broken voice assured her that she

was.

"Then what's the matter?"

There was no reply. It needed the gentleness of her arms, the quiet, soothing fingers on her daughter's head, before Mrs. Leggatt could bring the story from Dorothy's lips. Mrs. Leggatt's heart misgave her as she listened. The world was very old; was very changeless in the midst of all its changes. Adam and Eve might well, indeed, have been turned out of the Garden, but they had only been driven into the world. She laid her head upon Dorothy's pillow, adding a sigh to her daughter's tears when the little story was ended.

"But if you're sure he loves you," she asked presently, "isn't that enough?" Dorothy was silent.

"Isn't it? Isn't it?" persisted Mrs. Leggatt. "What more can you want but that?"

"But he doesn't say so," whispered Dorothy. "He doesn't show it. Never -not once since that first day whenwhen he held my hand and—thenkissed it. He asked me that day if I was angry. Perhaps when I only shook my head he didn't understand that I meant

no. But I know he'd wanted to take my hand. It hadn't been anything to do

with looking at the lines, because I took. it away to see, and he got it back again as soon as he could."

In the darkness, Mrs. Leggatt smiled; a smile in which no thought of laughter lay concealed. You smile at memories that only bring you pain; it is the gentle smile of recognition. That is all.

"Well-if he wishes to be with you now," she said, “isn't that proof enough? Isn't that all that you need? It is so easy to get more, and when it comes it's always more than you ask. 'The little more and how much it seems-' I must read Browning to you. It was read to me once. But it's never the little more you get, for the little more is the very edge and then-oh-what more do you want?"

"If he—if only he" she could not bring herself to say the words.

"If only he kissed you, Dorothy-is that it? Oh, he'll do that one day, my little girl; why should you want it now? He may love you to-day better than ever he will in his life again. Oh-isn't it the world?-it's the world all over again! Be content, my dear, be content with little. It is just the more a woman wants which makes the much more that she gets. Be content with little-it is enough."

She could give no better advice than this. In her good-hearted but foolish way the poor woman could not find it in her conscience to adopt an attitude of stern reproval. Her own folly was known. How could she pose in virtuous censure of this very passion to which she herself had given way? It was the

world, she had said, it was the world. all over again. It stirred up memories which for years she had striven to subdue. She could only speak from them. All she said was true-only too true, with that painful truth which comes from bitter experience. But it was no advice from a mother to her child.

She may have thought her words contained a warning, saving Dorothy from the abyss into which she herself had fallen, but their effect was far from what she supposed. The great tide of Nature. which turns in every woman at such an age had fully turned in Dorothy then. She loved Dicky with her whole heart and understanding. There was nothing else in Life for her but this. To that end, therefore, of its complete and perfect comprehension, she set the whole purpose of her mind. Nothing more than this was to be gained. She knew nothing of, nor cared for, the development it brought her. The moment a girl becomes a woman, her development is complete. She can become no more. The experiences of Life lie still in front of her; they harden or soften as they come. But in the development of purpose in her soul, the journey of a woman's life finds its completion when love. comes knocking at her heart, and, in answer to its summons, she steps forth into the light of womanhood.

To Dorothy, the advice her mother had given her served only to quicken her mind to its end. If it were not the little more which she needed, but the much more she would get, what was that more, and could it ever be too much?

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