increasing desire to meet Kingsley. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and her skirt was torn. Ringing and clear, she called again and again: "Mr. Kingsley! I am here!" But the silence was a weight upon her shoulders.

Greater unselfishness than she had ever known came to the girl in that Burma night. Her heart beat steadily and strong; her nerves were excellent. Of course, she was tiring; but human life itself, measured against the background of this country and Kingsley's action, was insignificant. There are bigger emotions than self-preservation and they possessed her as she carried on, stopping and calling; waited and carried on again, for Kingsley, who, she knew, had carried on for her.

The gods of those hills are very real to the numberless souls who insignificantly dot them and pass on. Who can say they were not watching and judging? Surely, they rewarded.

Elaine had come upon something soft and breathing. Bending, she knew it was Kingsley. The passion that overwhelmed her at finding his prostrate body was more than reaction. She took the limp, sick face in her hands and kissed it hungrily. Who shall say that the gods were not pleased at this? Again they rewarded: a red glow in the sky was the moon of India, rising, it seemed, from nowhere; and in Kingsley's first waking moment it shone full upon her face, above him.

Neither spoke; but she smiled with a tenderness that men see not often in this world and cherish when they're dying.

He was very weak. The fever had gone and he was comfortable. Most of it he could remember, and deduced the rest. Oh, the peace of her hands that stroked his hair! Her face beside him— and the Burma moon!

He closed his eyes and murmured: "You shouldn't have come, you know." "Sleep!" she whispered. "Sleep, old

man!"

His gun she took from the ground and examined. It felt friendly; it was his. She would wait until morning.

The silence of that night was music; and in her heart was a great, strange song: lilting, poignant.

IV

WITH impatience, unaware that she was tired, Elaine took charge of things aboard the Chindwin. Kingsley was very sick. Another attack of fever had set in after they had carried him aboard and put Magwe behind them.

With fine efficiency she ordered people about: her father out of her way, to his camera-clicking. She was doctor, nurse, and czar in Kingsley's stateroom. She permitted the Chinese merchant to sit by his bunk and fan him: which that obedient gentleman did until his arms felt as though they must fall off. Elaine liked the Chinaman because he spoke no English. She allowed him to leave for his lunch. It is thought that, once outside the door, he shook his head and marvelled at the un-Oriental ways of certain Western women.

She was alone with her patient. He tossed restlessly and muttered. He said her name, as though dreaming of her, and she was happy. The Chindwin's paddles chunked a song now.

One listens to the mutterings of delirious people with uncomfortable fascination. Elaine, sitting by Kingsley's bunk, listened, watching his face closely, ready to anticipate his slightest need. She heard him say: "Bhamo! Must go on to Bhamo!”

She stroked his hair. It was pleasant to stroke his hair and it may have soothed him somehow. He spoke again:

"To Judith," he said; and, lest there might be some mistake: "To Judith-in Bhamo!"

Her hand left his head. She felt chilled. She sat motionless, however, and waited. He spoke again, unhappily: "Judith needs me

...

promised her

swore I would . . . Bhamo. . . .” Elaine turned and looked out the porthole at the sameness of Irrawaddy river bank. Here, then, was her romance: nursing a feverish man, in a smelly stateroom, while he yearned to go on to another woman. What a blessing, this fever! She might have made a fool of herself! She had never thought it might be a woman who drew him irresistibly to Bhamo, despite fever, despite everything. But he was a man, she reasoned

bitterly. Yet, he seemed different . . somehow.

She didn't want to stroke his hair. She wouldn't! She stroked it tenderly and long.

The midday wore on to afternoon. Without moving, admitting no one to the room, she sat staring at Kingsley, asleep. Hours like that are very long.

He turned to her, conscious, open-eyed. "How long to Mandalay?" he asked. Romantic!

"A few hours," she replied.
"You're getting off, aren't you?"
"Yes."

"You must be tired, Elaine, dear." "I am, a bit, Mr. Kingsley." "Well, I'm staying on till Bhamo," wearily he said. "I wouldn't wish Bhamo on any one-but, gad! I hate to see you leave, and I've got to go on."

She replied: "The captain has a Hindoo waiting to take care of you; and you'll have a doctor at Mandalay. I don't think you'll need me."

He looked at her in amazement. "Need you? I'll always need you-after last night!"

Judith! Men!

V

MANDALAY. Exceptional bustle for the Chindwin. From the Germans: "Gott sei dank!" From the English couple, kindly inquiries for Mr. Kingsley. The Chinese merchant bowed nine times and escaped. Mr. Brandon used two whole rolls of film before the boat had come to

a stop.

Elaine was again at Kingsley's side. "A doctor's coming right away," she told him. "I'm sure you'll feel better soon. I-take care of yourself, won't you? I guess that's all."

She took his hand and, looking away, shook it feebly. He looked at her in bewilderment.

"Is that all?" incredulously. "Is what 'all'?" she asked.

"You aren't leaving me like that! Not you! You can't!" But he was too weak to sit up.

She was at the door now. Human only, she had been hurt and would hurt in return. "You'll find Judith in Bhamo!"

"Elaine !" But she was gone.

All for the best, she argued. It would have been embarrassing. She'd no reason to think . . . but it hurt. . . it hurt terribly.

...

She stood on the dock at Mandalay, and watched the Chindwin paddle on; on toward Bhamo and Judith. She turned away from it with something of what we call hatred; turned so quickly that she spoiled a picture Mr. Brandon was taking of the Chindwin's retreating, ugly bulk.

A girl, Elaine had dreamed of the one romance. Spanish nights, perhaps; and songs to liquid guitars. Or Naples. Or India! she'd thought. Yet this trip through Burma was to be an ugly memory. And it had promised such beautiful things, out there back of Magwe, that night. That night! when he lay helpless and she had watched. Well

These reflections were the cause of the abstracted, impatient humor of her which her father was at a loss to explain.

They went to the hotel. Uninteresting. Mandalay that she had dreamed of seeing! Everything uninteresting. She was very unhappy.

A restless evening with her father, who, being man, understood her not at all. She wanted one of her sex-one close to her-to talk to, but having none now repressed all she yearned to say: reviling things about men.

To bed, and the benison of sleep. She dreamed of a Judith, a beautiful Judith, the Judith, his Judith. It must be recorded as a nightmare.

Morning brought mad desire to leave Mandalay and India and memories far behind. She counted the hours till the boat for Rangoon. With her father she ate a light breakfast. He was in detestably good spirits. Would they never leave India!

After Mr. Brandon had snapped furiously at the hotel, the street (from both directions and both sides), and wellremunerated beggars, they went to the dock and awaited the return boat. Elaine solemnly resolved that these Mandalay negatives would never live to laugh at her out of Mr. Brandon's albums. The Rangoon boat grew from a white speck, up the winding Irrawaddy, to the doubtful white bulk similar to the Chind

win. It came on like a great, squatty duck, chunking and croaking, waddling its way to the shore, to take them on its broad back. It had come from Bhamo, she mused. It had passed the Chindwin. He had looked at it, just as she was doing. What part of it had he looked at longest? "Little fool!" she told herself.

Once aboard, the boat was distressingly

like the Chindwin; too rich in reminiscences which would not have been so vivid in other surroundings. She almost thought it was the Chindwin. . . . But it felt terribly empty, lonely.

More coolies, in chalked-off squares, smoked opium silently, aft. There were few first-class passengers, and these considerately aloof.

She spent the afternoon reading, but not intelligently. Her father had purchased a diary in Mandalay and was zealously remembering every train, each hotel and chance acquaintance since leaving New York. To see him labor at it, he might have been compiling a History of All Races. It was the happiest time in his life. She knew this and was glad; then wondered why she wasn't more enthusiastic about it.

She fell to puzzling about her father. He had loved her mother-deeply and long. Yet here he was, as completely forgetful of all save his camera, diary, and time-tables as though his wife had never existed. Blissfully happy without her! Strange! Were all men-? Would she, too, love and then age to that?

She marvelled that she, his child, understood him so perfectly while he knew her not at all. It is often so with a father and daughter. He was a dear person and she loved him. But now- Oh, well! she sighed, they were returning to London. She'd friends there: forgetfulness of Burma-and Kingsley.

Their stop that night was Minbu. They rested a half-mile south of the village proper, as the Alakan hills faded from view in the waning light. What had been his words? She remembered, as he stood near the rail, the distant look in his eyes, very tired: "On the opposite bank is Minbu. Minbu's larger. You'll stop there on the way back. On the way ba-." But he would come back. Judith must be a rather splendid sort, otherwise he couldn't-. Not he! Judith would bring him back, she reasoned. He'd tell Judith about Magwe. She'd be sceptical. She'd even smile, as women do. But she'd bring him back, past Minbu, and to where he'd grow strong again.

With these thoughts, she went below to dinner. Interest in Burma villages along the Irrawaddy was gone. She was not one to shrug, sigh, and resign herself to unhappy reviewal of the events of the past few days. Not that. There was intelligent, youthful revolt against the whole thing. If she analyzed her emotions, she was honest enough to admit that she loved Kingsley, that she had wanted to love Kingsley and that, more

than all else in the world, she wanted Kingsley. But if things were going to break that way for her-well, she could hate Burma and Judith heartily and intelligently. No sighing. But she had no one to whom she could tell it all; and that's bad.

Interest in dinner consisted in seeing how quickly it could be finished.

"Good Lord, Elaine! We're not catching the next boat or anything!" "All right, father."

What of Kingsley's fever? she mused. Surely the doctor at Mandalay and the Hindoo servant-these would bring him around. If they would just keep him cool and quiet. Would they see that he slept and was always comfortable? Of course, when he got to Bhamo, there was Judith. That was good. But should she have insisted on going that far with him? She could have stayed on the Chindwin and

A clear, cool voice, somewhere at the table: "Yes, Kingsley. Judith Kingsley is correct."

A tall, gloriously blonde and regal creature had given her name to the captain, writing-then continued to nibble things daintily. If Elaine's heart stopped, it resumed with a pound that left her giddy. She pushed her plate aside andshe couldn't help it-stared, wide-eyed. Calm, cool, aristocratic, blonde and beautiful Judith!

Judith, conscious of this scrutiny, concentrated on buttering a cracker, then nibbled it with aggravating slowness. Elaine studied the long, perfect fingers that handled things nicely. On the orthodox third of the left hand were a solitaire in platinum and a thin platinum band. Elaine arose with enthusiasm and went to her stateroom.

Just as she had pictured her! She'd have known her anywhere! It was the Judith she had dreamed of, that awful night in Mandalay.

Quickly there came the inevitable thought of Kingsley's arrival in Bhamo. Sick Kingsley, going on and on for love of one who nibbled crackers as though crackers were the business of life and calmly put miles and miles between her and Bhamo. Was the woman mad? She must know about Kingsley being sick.