Instead of the Thorn. Clara Louise Burnham

a sudden. Sleeping, eating, and all the rest of it." The speaker scowled. "The mischief of it is, Young says I've got to get away for a month at least. He says—Oh, you don't care what he says."

      Linda regarded the downcast one. He was speaking to her as to an equal, not, as usual, with tacit rebuke for some misdemeanor. This blunt reproach, if it were reproach, merely referred casually to her indifference.

      "I care a great deal," she returned, with spirit. "I'm sure it will make my father very anxious to have you away at the same time he is."

      King lifted his weary eyes to hers, eager and bright.

      "I'm sure Doctor Flagg could give you a tonic or something to tide you over till we return in September," she went on. "You could go then."

      Her companion leaned back in his chair with a long, inaudible breath. "We have arranged all that. Mr. Barry wants me to go."

      The speaker did look rather cadaverous. Linda realized it now. It was a strange thing to have in any degree a sense of compassion for him: this masterful man on whom her father leaned, the man who alone in all the world had a hundred times without a word put her in the wrong, and whom as often she had fervently wished she might never see again. She had chafed against that chain of her father's reliance which bound herself as well. There was no escaping King, and when in her busy college life she thought of him at all, it was as a presumptuous creature who was continually making good his presumption; and what could be more exasperating than that?

      King was a self-made man, one with few connections in Chicago, one of whom was Linda's voice teacher, Mrs. Porter. The girl never had exactly understood this relationship, but the fact that some of Mrs. Porter's blood ran in his veins constituted Bertram's only redeeming trait in the eyes of that lady's adorer. Now as she regarded him, staring with discontented eyes at the rug, a sense came over her for the first time that King was a lonely figure. It was all very well for a man in health to live at the University Club and have his mind and life entirely wrapped up in business; but when eating and sleeping became difficult and the brain was over-weary, the evenings might seem rather long to him.

      "It serves a young man right," thought Linda, "when he will bind himself on the wheel of business and act as if there was not one thing in the world worth having but money!" Hadn't she seen to what such a course had brought her father? She spoke:—

      "There's a lot of nonsense in all this kow-towing to business," she said. "Why do men make such slaves of themselves?"

      "So their women can have a house like this, several gowns like yours, and a motor like the one you're going out in," responded King dully.

      Linda's rosy lips curled. "Fred Whitcomb's motor is last year's model."

      Her companion smiled.

      "There, you see!" he remarked. "There's nothing for me to do but to keep on hustling so you can always have the latest."

      Color flashed over Linda's face, but she shrugged carelessly.

      "Oh, of course," she retorted, "everything is Eve's fault."

      "Pretty sure to be," returned King, nodding slowly. "Cherchez la femme. Toujours cherchez la femme." He regarded her for a moment of silence, during which she was so uncomfortable that she raised both hands to arrange an imaginary hairpin at the back of her head.

      "Where have you decided to go?" she asked at last, continually warmer under his eyes, and wondering if Fred Whitcomb had had a puncture.

      "Why, I thought it would be great to spend long Colorado days in the saddle with you."

      "Did you really?" Linda's little laugh had a most discouraging note.

      "Yes, but Dr. Young jumped on that. He said I mustn't go within gunshot of your father."

      Linda shook her head. "I should advise you not to myself. I'm a pretty good shot."

      King looked up. "It would be great, though. Think of having you through with all this college foolery, and having plenty of time to talk to you."

      The girl's eyes brightened. "Pray, did you consider Yale foolery?"

      "A lot of it, yes," replied King, wearily; "but never mind, Linda, we're through with all that. I thought of the long days out there in Estes Park, the divine air, 'the dark pilasters of the pines,' and you, sparkling and radiant, on a good horse, and I with time enough to tell you how I love you!"

      "Bertram!" Linda shot rather than rose to her feet, and her eyes launched arrows.

      "Sit down. Sit down. I shall have to stand if you don't, and I'm dog-tired. Didn't you know I loved you, Linda, honest now?"

      The girl sank into her chair. She was trying to think of the cruelest way to crush him. She opened her lips once or twice to speak and closed them again. King regarded her immovably, his worn look meeting her vital gaze.

      "Your taste in jokes is very poor," she said at last, and her tone was icy, "and you may rest assured that no regard for you will prevent my telling my father exactly what you have said."

      "You needn't. He knows it," returned King. His voice, which had brightened, relapsed into nervelessness.

      "My father knows it!" The girl could not restrain the exclamation.

      "Yes, of course. I believed you did, upon my honor. I've had so little time, you see, and you've been so busy."

      He seemed so innocent of offense that her anger gave way to the habitual exasperation.

      "Bertram King," she said,—and if there is such a thing as stormy dignity her manner expressed it,—"I believe the grind of business has dried up your brains. I could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions on which you have expressed even approval of me." Her nostrils dilated as she spoke.

      Her companion's solemn visage suddenly beamed in a smile. "You remember them, then," he returned, with a pleased naïveté which nearly wrecked her severity; but she held her pose.

      "You dared to speak to my dear father—I think you have him mesmerized, I really do—you dared to speak to him seriously of—of—caring for me, when you have criticized nearly every move I have made at home for four years."

      "Have I? I don't remember saying anything discourteous to you."

      "You didn't need to," retorted Linda. She didn't wish to snap, she wished to freeze, but old wounds ached. "Your actions, your looks, were quite enough."

      "My looks?" repeated King mildly. "I'm sure you exaggerate. It must have been these glasses: the wrong shape or something." He took them off and regarded them critically.

      "I hate your jokes!" retorted the girl, hotly.

      "Hate what you like so long as it isn't me!"

      "It is you!" The words came with emphasis.

      "Then you do like me." King nodded. "It's an admission."

      "You disgust me with your silliness," she returned, turning away. "I wonder what has become of Fred Whitcomb." She rose and swept to the bay window.

      King followed her.

      "Fred's a good fellow. I always liked Whitcomb," he said.

      Linda made no response to this. She scanned the road anxiously up and down.

      There was another interim of silence; then:—

      "Your father would be pleased, Linda," ventured King. "He said so."

      "You hypnotize him. I said so. My father," she added with scorn,—"my father like me to marry a man who always disapproved of me?"

      "Is that why you try to hate me?" asked King thoughtfully. "I have disapproved of you a good many times, but I do think that—considering everything—you've done very well."

      Linda, the all-conquering, the leader, the criterion, turned upon the speaker a gaze of amazement; then she laughed.

      "How