philosophy and love, frowned on by his father, upbraided by his mother and sisters, ridiculed by his friends, sought solace ever more and more frequently in the company of the woman who had cast her spell upon him. He did not notice the care-worn look on her face, and the weariness in her eyes, as he reëntered her office that afternoon; the radiance of her smile made all else dim. And there was no abatement from the usual warmth of her welcome.
"I've just heard," said Barry, "about that affair up at Tracy's night before last. I was going up to have it out with Phil, but I decided to come in and talk it over with you first."
"I'm so glad you did," she said. "I don't want you to have it out with him. I don't want you to talk with him about it, or even mention it to him."
"But the thing's all over town to-day."
"Who—whom do they say it was who is alleged to have been with me on the bridge?"
"Why, Phil and that crowd allow it was Steve, but some say it was me. Now, you know I wasn't there."
The look of anxiety dropped from her face and she laughed merrily.
"Certainly!" she replied. "I know it was not you. And I've told you it wasn't Steve."
"But it must have been somebody."
"Do you doubt me, Barry?"
She had been calling him by his given name of late, and had given him permission to call her by hers.
"N-no. Only the thing's mighty funny. Jane Chichester swore she couldn't be mistaken."
Mary Bradley laughed again.
"Ah!" she said; "then it was Miss Chichester who witnessed that surprising exhibition of womanly immodesty. Don't you think she was giving rein to her imagination?"
"She might have been," admitted Barry. "She
