"I love you."

She patted his cheek. "It's so good of you to go on caring about me."

"I couldn't stop if I wanted to,--and I don't want to."

She put her thin arm about his neck. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything on earth!"

A wan little funny gleam lighted her pretty dark eyes.

"This is on earth, all right. I'll tell you about it next time you come...." Suddenly Elsie sat up and grasped him. "There will be a next time, won't there, Harvey?" she asked him in a wild tone, a wave of terror seeming to go over her.

He held her gently.

"Don't be frightened, dear. Of course there is going to be a next time ... all the rest of our lives. You didn't think even for a minute that I would go back on you, did you, Elsie?"

She smiled and released herself, then smiled again. "No, no, I didn't mean that. Take a chair, Harvey, and tell me about the weather."

Harvey took the chair and once more possessed himself of her hand.

She smiled sweetly.

"Now let me ask you a favor. Let's name the day, Elsie," he said.

"Promise to marry me,--as soon as you get well."

"When--I--get--well," Elsie looked wonderingly at him. She saw his pa.s.sionate earnestness, his need of hope. Hope! It was fast fainting in her heart. "Yes, Harvey,--when I get well."

He bent over her and with deep tenderness kissed her.

Violent coughing seized her. It was the worst, the most prolonged Elsie had yet had. One spasm followed another, bringing her mother with remedies.

Harvey moved frantically about; he was the first to suggest the doctor and ran out to bring one. He did not realize, he could not know what had really happened.

When he returned Elsie had fallen asleep and the physician advised them not to waken her, promising to call early in the morning. The faithful Harvey went with him. He had her answer, "when I get well," she said.

Elsie remained until nearly day-break in a very deep sleep. The fever left her during this long repose. Her sister, who was watching beside her, thought she was better because her forehead grew damp and cool.

With the first early light of morning Elsie opened her eyes.

Patience pushed back the pretty tendrils of her dark hair. "It's sister watching with you, dear," she said.

"Where's mother?" murmured Elsie in a voice so weak that it frightened Patience.

"Mother! mother! Please come!" she called.

"She's coming," answered Patience as Mrs. Welcome came hurrying to the bedside.

She understood without a word, lifting Elsie in her arms, the frail little worn body against her heart. Tears streamed down her face; sobs shook her body.

Patience hurried weeping to summon Harry.

"Don't cry, Mother," moaned Elsie. "I am so glad I am home with you."

"Yes, Elsie, yes."

"I would have come long ago, but I didn't dare--so many girls never dare go home. Some of their mothers don't want them, but you--. Mother--"

"Yes my darling, yes!"

"I was afraid, so afraid. I went--and--looked--at the--lake." She seemed to her mother to wander a bit.

Her breathing became difficult. No more words came. A few quick fluttering breaths--Elsie was gone.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

AT MARY RANDALL'S SUMMER HOME

Lake Geneva season was at its close. Most of the lake dwellers had closed their houses and returned to town. For those who remained late autumn had her glories. Woods and groves were gay in foliage. Orchards bowed their heads beneath their loads of ripened fruit. In shorn fields the birds, preparing for southern migration, sang of a year crowned with plenty.

Vines hung deep about the broad veranda of the villa where Mary Randall was resting from her labors in the company of her uncle and aunt. She sat alone in a corner of the veranda one sunny day, waiting for the arrival of the journalist Ambrose, one of her most efficient aids.

Anna, her faithful maid came with an armful of flowers and began arranging them on the table.

"You love those old-fashioned flowers even more than I do, I believe, Anna," said Miss Randall.

"I do love them. They seem like the blossom of my vacation," said Anna.

"That's a pretty way to put it. Your vacation is to be a good long one.

You have certainly earned it. You're as worn as I am, after our battle. I never should have got through it without you."

"Thank you, Miss Mary. Here comes the flower of all your workers,--Mr.

Ambrose," said the girl, and withdrew.

"Good news," said the journalist cheerfully, coming to greet his friend, and noting with a sudden swift pleasure that a faint blush came to her cheeks and a new light to her eyes as she welcomed him. "Good news! As I was coming away the newspapers were out with the extra. The city council held a special meeting during the afternoon. They have abolished the segregated district. The city has formally adopted the policy of suppressing instead of circ.u.mscribing vice."

"That is the beginning of the end," said Miss Randall. "If our campaign has won that we have won all I hoped for."

"Yet many people believe that we failed."

"Even if we had failed we should have made progress. Every movement of this kind leaves its mark on the public conscience. It makes work easier for other crusaders."

"Yes," responded Ambrose, "because it brings out the facts. Facts are lasting. They cannot die."