own, and then he would have to persuade her all over again against what her candid mind would reveal to her. But that was in the future. He put the thought aside. He would persuade her when the time came. She should be made to believe that the story and its triumph-for the conclusion was strong within him that it would be a triumph-were her own. And the greatest part of his reward would be to witness her joy. Twelve years of waiting! Surely something was due her for those years! In the end she yielded. But as he rose to go she came to his side. "Please remember to say nothing to them-to anyone."

"I promise you," he answered, and they passed into the hall. While he was putting on his coat and thinking that a quick retreat would extricate him from the awkwardness of questions in the parlor, Mr. Steiner came out into the hall. "Going down town?" he asked.

well be the spring of a commonplace, colorless existence like hers. But he knew that her inspiration had been something else. If only he could have found it-this key-stone to her House of Dreams. As it was, he gave himself up to the writing of the story without reserve. The printers' proofs he read in person. It was a task, he explained to Miss Beasley, which he could perform to better advantage at the office. And she never suspected his design. When what was done was irrevocable and he laid before her the first copy of a slender volume bound in cool gray he had his reward.

She sat by his desk at the time, and for a minute afterward she did not stir or speak. Her eyes, bathed in a light which somehow was faintly reminiscent to Pettit, rested on the book, a little smile played about her mouth. But she seemed filled with a strange awe, and when she laid a hand upon the book, passing her finger-tips over its

"Then I will walk with you that far," said Mr. Steiner, and with no word to the little woman who held out his hat to him, he followed Pettit into the street. "Thinking of joining the family?" he asked jocosely.

Pettit's answer was discouraging in its brevity, but his companion was not rebuffed. "Queer pair of little old maids," he remarked. "And really the place isn't very comfortable. But I've been there quite a while, about fifteen years, and I haven't the courage to break away. Too soft-hearted, I suppose."

Pettit mumbled something non-commital, and just then a car came along, which he boarded with Mr. Steiner's shout of "goodnight" ringing in his ears.

The book was published. But first came many long evenings under the lamp in Pettit's room, the original manuscript beside him, a steadily growing pile of sheets of closely written note-paper in front of him. These were hours of tearing apart and of putting together again, of fierce enthusiasm and again of utter disgust. One thing baffled him to the end. Do what he might, her secret remained her own. In despera tion he gave up the attempt to learn it, invented a motive, and worked the thing out along his own lines as best he might. It was a plausible motive, such a one as might

believed the book impalpable, ready to dissolve at the touch. As it grew upon her that it was tangible, a real book-her own

Her

her fingers closed upon it convulsively. Joy flooded her face. The next moment she had carried the book to her breast. head was bent over it, her lips were moving. No sound came from them, but Pettit understood that she was repeating to herself the title of the book and her own name-over and over again.

When at last she realized that she was not alone, still hugging the book, she held out a hand to him. Her eyes were shining through a mist of tears. She tried to say something to him; it ended in a quick little sob and a clutch at the book against her breast.

A month later book reviewers were asking, "Who is Elizabeth Beasley?" There was not much to tell them. But that made small difference. The book sold. It was not a literary sensation; it made no great stir. But people began to speak of it to one another, and it steadily gained readers. At the end of four months it had achieved a success which enabled Pettit to send a check of fair size to its author. With this went a personal note of congratulation. It was but the second time he had written to her since the book was published, and he had not seen or heard from her since that day. He believed he knew the reason. She had

read the book, and it was to her as a house empty of a child-the child her own. This thought put Pettit in an ill humor—an ill humor with himself.

The same day that he despatched his note to her Pettit had a caller-a caller who followed so quickly the announcement of his name that there was no chance to escape him. He trod in heavily at the heels of the office boy, his hand outstretched, Pettit's name without the "Mr." before it on his lips. "Suppose you've been wondering why I didn't show up sooner," he began, dropping into a chair and stretching out his legs. "I've been meaning to come ever since that night we met. But the fact is you fooled me for a while. I'll acknowledge it. Thought you really were hunting for a room-yes, I did, until I picked up a copy of the book yesterday and learned from Lizzie that selling books was your game. Had to worm it out of her-that's the truth, though you wouldn't think it. Once I found it out, I put two and two together-and here I am." Pettit said that he saw as much, and neither his words nor his voice expressed any delight at the fact. While restraining the impluse to add that he was just then too busy to prolong the interview he was wondering what could be the immediate reason for this visit. Something besides the familiarity in his caller's manner irritated him inexpressibly.

Mr. Steiner for several minutes was content to indulge himself in reminiscent remarks upon the slight circumstances of their first meeting, and appeared to be disturbed not at all by the curt replies which he got. Finally, he came back to the explanation with which he had introduced himself, and then, after a pause which Pettit thought premonitory of withdrawal, he suddenly drew up his legs, and plumped out the question, "Look here, Pettit, about that book. How much do you figure it's going to bring in-in cold hard dollars-to Lizzie?"

Pettit was sharply aroused. "If you will pardon me," he replied, "that is a matter upon which I would prefer not to express an opinion. If I did, it would certainly be only to the two parties most interested in the question."

Mr. Steiner laughed boisterously. "Now that's what I call right funny," he declared. "Of course you have to be careful; I'm on to that. But it's funny that you should make

such a remark to me. Who do you think are the parties most interested in this book ?”

"I had supposed until this time," said Pettit with acid precision, "that those two parties were Miss Beasley and this company." Again Mr. Steiner laughed. "Say, Pettit," he returned, "I've got a little surprise for you. You're a great fellow. Can't you imagine that somebody else might be just as much interested as you and Lizzie are? You can't? Well, someone else is."

"May I ask the name of this third party?" inquired Pettit, with difficulty contriving an even voice.

"You certainly can," Mr. Steiner answered. "And I'm the very fellow to tell you. For it's me. Yes, me. And the reason I'm interested is just this: I'm thinking of marrying the lady."

He threw himself back in the chair, shot out his legs at full length, and laughed louder than ever. Pettit's stare was one of complete amazement. And for an instant nothing but astonishment possessed him. Then, as the significance of the announcement grew upon him, his wrath blazed out in an oath.

Mr. Steiner's laughter died away, and he had opened his mouth to make a retort when Pettit began to speak. "Look here," he asked, "what did you mean when you said just now that you were thinking of marrying Miss Beasley?"

"Just what I said. We're engaged. Only got to fix the day. And that won't be put off long-now that Lizzie's book

He checked himself abruptly, but Pettit mentally supplied the words unspoken, and the reply on his own lips was not uttered. In a flash had come to him what he had sought for in vain for many weeks-the inspiration of a little woman's story of herself.

The man before him was the hero of the unwritten chapter of her life. She loved him; Pettit was sure of that. And this had been her secret. Now it was a secret no longer; for she had stepped upon the threshold of her House of Dreams. And soon she would pass its portals to live in it and to find

what? The joys which she had hungered for and fed upon in fancy for so long? Or an empty shell, comfortless, roofless, falling about her ears?

Looking at the ungainly length lolling before him, the eyes dully fixed on Pettit's face, the mouth loosely opened in a grin,

Pettit saw the House of Dreams already in ruins. This filled him with a great anger. It should not be. He would prevent it. But how?

Suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair and brought his hands smartly together. It was in his power to save her. He had only to tell the truth. To show the man before him, as he knew he could show him, that this book was not her book, that its success was much less than it seemed to be, that no other book could come from her to earn the dollars which were all that drew him to her. Once Steiner was convinced of this, he would never do what he was about to do, and she would be saved. Saved? There Pettit's racing thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt. Saved for what? he asked himself. To recognize the danger she had escaped? To be content with that much? No. Only to realize that she would never know her dream fulfilled. And more cruel even than this, to realize that her happiness had been snatched from her at the very

moment when she had begun to taste its sweetness.

Pettit's hands fell apart, his pose relaxed, and he looked away from Steiner and out across the green platform of the square. There, beneath the elms, children were playing, and down one of the walks toward him came a little woman, her figure drawn primly within the folds of a shawl, a gloved hand swinging a bag at her side. It might almost have been she. No, no, he could not deny her the one hour of joy which was surely hers. And so he waited until he felt that the wrath had passed from his face, then turned about.

"I've been thinking over what you asked me just now, Mr. Steiner," he said. "And in view of what you have told me, I don't feel justified in refusing the information. Miss Beasley's book is selling, as you know. I can see no reason why it should not continue to sell for some time to come. In the end, it should bring her a considerable amount in royalties."

XX-(Continued)

HE beach began filling up. The news of a shipwreck had spread with the rapidity of a thunder-shower. One crowd, denser in spots where thestronger men were breasting the wind, which was now happily on the wane, were moving from the village along the beach; others were stumbling on through the marshes. From the back country, along the road leading from the hospital, rattled a gig, the horse doing his utmost. In this were Doctor John and Jane. She had, contrary to his advice, remained at the hospital. The doctor had been awakened by the shouts of a fisherman, and had driven with all speed to the hospital to get his remedies and instruments. Jane had insisted upon accompanying him, although she had been

up half the night with one of the sailors rescued the week before by the crew of No. 14. The early morning air-it was now seven o'clock-would do her good, she pleaded, and she might be of use if any one of the poor fellows needed a woman's care.

Farther down toward Beach Haven the sand was dotted with wagons and buggies; some filled with summer boarders anxious to see the crew at work. One used as the depot omnibus contained Max Feilding, Mrs. Wharton Boggs, and Lucy-anything to divert her mind—and half a dozen others. She had passed a sleepless night, and having been roused by the cries of those hurrying by, had thrown a heavy cloak around her and opening wide the piazza door, had caught sight of the doomed vessel fighting for its life.

With the change of wind and tide predicted by Captain Holt, the wreckage from

of these were smashed into splinters by endon collisions with cord-wood; others had dodged the floatage and were landed high on the beach.

During the enforced idleness Tod occupied himself in rolling away from the backsuck of the surf the drift that came ashore. Being nearest a stranded crate he dragged it clear and stood bending over it, reading the inscription. With a start he beckoned to Parks, the nearest man to him, tore the card from the wooden slat, and held it before the surfman's face.

"What's this? Read! That's the Polly Walters out there, I tell ye; and the captain's son's aboard! I've been suspicionin' it all the mornin'. That's him with the slouch hat. I knowed he warn't no sailor from the way he acted. Don't say nothin' till we're sure."

Parks dodged a stick of cord-wood that drove straight at him like a battering-ram and, watching his chance, dragged a floating keg from the smother, rolled it clear of the surf, turned it on end, and took a similar card from its head. Then he shouted with all his might:

"It's the Polly, men! It's the Polly -the Polly Walters! O, God, ain't that too bad! Captain Ambrose's drownded, or we'd a-seen him! That feller in the slouch hat is Bart Holt! Gimme that line!" He was stripping off his waterproofs ready for a plunge into the sea.

As the words fell from his lips Captain Holt made a spring from the dune and came running toward Parks, who was now knotting the shot-line about his waist. He had heard the shouts of the crowd repeating Parks's cry.

"What do you say she is?" the captain shouted, straining his eyes toward the wreckage.

"The Polly-the Polly Walters !”

My God! How do ye know? She ain't left Amboy, I tell ye!"

"She has! That's her-see them kerds! They come off that stuff behind ye. Archie got one and I got t'other!" and he held the bits of cardboard under the rim of the captain's sou'-wester.

Captain Holt snatched the cards from Parks's hand, read them at a glance, and a

his face. Then his eye fell upon Parks knotting the shot-line about his waist. "Take that off! Stay where ye are, Parks-don't ye move, I tell ye."

As the words dropped from the captain's lips a horrified shout went up from the bystanders. The wreck with a crunching sound, was being lifted from the sand. She rose steadily, staggered for an instant, and dropped out of sight; she had broken amidships. With the recoil two ragged bunches showed above the white wash of the water. On one fragment-a splintered mast— crouched the man with the slouch hat; to the other clung the two sailors. The next instant a great roller, gathering strength as it came, threw itself full length on both fragments and swept on. Only wreckage was left now, and one head.

The captain ripped a line from the drum of the cart, and with a cry to the men to stand by and catch the slack, dragged off his high boots, knotted the bight around his waist, and started on a run for the surf.

As his stockinged feet reached the edge of the foam, Archie darted after him, seized the captain around the waist and held him with a grip of steel.

"You sha'n't do it!" he cried, his eyes blazing. "Hold him, men-I'll get him!" and with the bound of a cat he landed in the middle of the floatage, dived under the logs, rose on the boiling surf, worked himself clear of the inshore wreckage, and struck out in the direction of the man clinging to the shattered mast, and who was now nearing the beach, whirled on by the inrushing seas.

Strong men held their breath, tears brimming their eyes. Captain Holt stood irresolute, dazed for the moment by Archie's danger. The beach-women-Mrs. Fogarty among them-were wringing their hands. They knew the risk better than the others.

Jane, at Archie's plunge, had run down. to the edge of the surf and stood with tightclenched fingers, her gaze fixed on the lad's head as he breasted the breakers-her face white as death, the tears running from her eyes. Fear for the boy she loved, pride in his pluck and courage, agony over the result of the rescue, all swept through her as she strained her eyes seaward.

Lucy, Max, and Mrs. Boggs were huddled together under the lee of the dune.

The Captain started up the dune with the bedraggled body of the unconscious man.

-"The Tides of Barnegat."