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“This lady –” began Sydney.

“Miss Lee,” said Margaret. “I was never married. I am Miss Margaret Lee.”

“This,” said Sydney, “is my sister Ellen, Mrs. Waters. Ellen, I wish you to meet Miss Lee.”

Ellen took into her own Margaret’s hand, and said feebly that it was a beautiful day and she hoped Miss Lee found Greenhill a pleasant place to — visit.

Sydney moved slowly out of the tent and found Jack Desmond. He was standing near with Camille, who looked her best in a pale-blue summer silk and a black hat trimmed with roses. Jack and Camille never really knew how the great man had managed, but presently Margaret had gone away with him and his sister.

Jack and Camille looked at each other.

“Oh, Jack, ought you to have let her go?” said Camille.

“What made you let her go?” asked Jack.

“I — don’t know. I couldn’t say anything. That man has a tremendous way with him. Goodness!”

“He is all right here in the place, anyhow,” said Jack. “They look up to him. He is a big-bug here. Comes of a family like Margaret’s, though he hasn’t got much money. Some chaps were braggin’ that they had a bigger show than her right here, and I found out.”

“Suppose,” said Camille, “Margaret does not come back?”

“He could not keep her without bein’ arrested,” declared Jack, but he looked uneasy. He had, however, looked uneasy for some time. The fact was, Margaret had been very gradually losing weight. Moreover, she was not well. That very night, after the show was over, Bill Stark, the little dark man, had a talk with the Desmonds about it.

“Truth is, before long, if you don’t look out, you’ll have to pad her,” said Bill; “and giants don’t amount to a row of pins after that begins.”

Camille looked worried and sulky. “She ain’t very well, anyhow,” said she. “I ain’t going to kill Margaret.”

“It’s a good thing she’s got a chance to have a night’s rest in a house,” said Bill Stark.

“The fat man has asked her to stay with him and his sister while the show is here,” said Jack.

“The sister invited her,” said Camille, with a little stiffness. She was common, but she had lived with Lees, and her mother had married a Lee. She knew what was due Margaret, and also due herself.

“The truth is,” said Camille, “this is an awful sort of life for a woman like Margaret. She and her folks were never used to anything like it.”

“Why didn’t you make your beauty husband hustle and take care of her and you, then?” de- manded Bill, who admired Camille, and disliked her because she had no eyes for him.

“My husband has been unfortunate. He has done the best he could,” responded Camille. “Come, Jack; no use talking about it any longer. Guess Margaret will pick up. Come along. I’m tired out.”

That night Margaret Lee slept in a sweet chamber with muslin curtains at the windows, in a massive old mahogany bed, much like hers which had been sacrificed at an auction sale. The bed-linen was linen, and smelled of lavender. Margaret was too happy to sleep. She lay in the cool, fragrant sheets and was happy, and convinced of the presence of the God to whom she had prayed. All night Sydney Lord sat down-stairs in his book-walled sanctum and studied over the situation. It was a crucial one. The great psychological moment of Sydney Lord’s life for knight-errantry had arrived. He studied the thing from every point of view. There was no romance about it. These were hard, sordid, tragic, ludicrous facts with which he had to deal. He knew to a nicety the agonies which Margaret suffered. He knew, because of his own capacity for sufferings of like stress. “And she is a woman and a lady,” he said, aloud.

If Sydney had been rich enough, the matter would have been simple. He could have paid Jack and Camille enough to quiet them, and Margaret could have lived with him and his sister and their two old servants. But he was not rich; he was even poor. The price to be paid for Margaret’s liberty was a bitter one, but it was that or nothing. Sydney faced it. He looked about the room. To him the walls lined with the dull gleams of old books were lovely. There was an oil portrait of his mother over the mantel-shelf. The weather was warm now, and there was no need for a hearth fire, but how exquisitely home-like and dear that room could be when the snow drove outside and there was the leap of flame on the hearth! Sydney was a scholar and a gentleman. He had led a gentle and sequestered life. Here in his native village there were none to gibe and sneer. The contrast of the traveling show would be as great for him as it had been for Margaret, but he was the male of the species, and she the female. Chivalry, racial, harking back to the beginning of nobility in the human, to its earliest dawn, fired Sydney. The pale daylight invaded the study. Sydney, as truly as any knight of old, had girded himself, and with no hope, no thought of reward, for the battle in the eternal service of the strong for the weak, which makes the true worth of the strong.