"Look up at me," bade Mark Carson. "Oh, Pan! Pan! Those tears prove that you are white."
Pan lifted her wet face.
"Kiss me, Pan," said he. It was the first time.
Next morning Mark Carson began work on the special-feature article which he had been promising his paper for some weeks.
III
ℂURSED be his ancestors," bayed Man You.
He cast a paper at his daughter's feet and left the room.
Startled by her father's unwonted passion, Pan picked up the paper, and in the clear passionless light of the afternoon read that which forever after was blotted upon her memory.
"Betrayed! Betrayed! Betrayed to be a betrayer!"
It burnt red hot; agony unrelieved by words, unassuaged by tears.
So till evening fell. Then she stumbled up the dark stairs which led to the high room open to the stars and tried to think it out. Someone had hurt her. Who was it? She
