“I suppose,” he said, “the hardest thing he ever had to do in his life was to print your picture.”

“Did he have to print it?”

“Didn’t he?  It was news.”

“And that’s your god, isn’t it, Mr. Mac?” said his visitor, smiling.

“It’s only a small name for Truth.  Good men have died for that.”

“Or killed others for their ideal of it.”

“Miss Esme,” said the invalid, “Hal Surtaine has had to face two tests.  He had to show up his own father in his paper.”

“Yes.  I read it.  But I’ve only begun to understand it since our talks.”

“And he had to print that about you.  Wayne told me he almost killed the story himself to save Hal.  ’I couldn’t bear to look at the boy’s face when he told me to run it,’ Wayne said.  And he’s no sentimentalist.  Newspapermen generally ain’t.”

“Aren’t you?” said Esme, with a catch in her breath.  “I should think you were, pretty much, at the ‘Clarion’ office.”

From that day she knew that she must talk it out with Hal.  Yet at every thought of that encounter, her maidenhood shrank, affrighted, with a sweet and tremulous fear.  Inevitable as was the end, it might have been long postponed had it not been for a word that Ellis let drop the day when he left the hospital.  Mrs. Festus Willard, out of friendship for Hal, had insisted that the convalescent should come to her house until his strength was quite returned, instead of returning to his small and stuffy hotel quarters, and Esme had come in her car to transfer him.  It was the day after the Talk-It-Over Breakfast at which Hal had announced the prospective fall of the “Clarion.”

“I’ll be glad to get back to the office,” said Ellis to Esme.  “They certainly need me.”

“You aren’t fit yet,” protested the girl.

“Fitter than the Boss.  He’s worrying himself sick.”

“Isn’t everything all right?”

“All wrong!  It’s this cussed Pierce libel case that’s taking the heart out of him.”

“Oh!” cried Esme, on a note of utter dismay.  “Why didn’t you tell me, Mr. Mac?”

“Tell you?  What do you know about it?”

“Lots!  Everything.”  She fell into silent thoughtfulness.  “I supposed that you had heard from Mr. Pierce, or his lawyer, at the office.  I must see Hal—­Mr. Surtaine—­now.  Does he still come to see you?”

“Everyday.”

“Send word to him to be at the Willards’ at two to-morrow.  And—­and, please, Mr. Mac, don’t tell him why.”

“Now, what kind of a little game is this?” began Ellis, teasingly.  “Am I an amateur Cupid, or what’s my cue?” He looked into the girl’s face and saw tears in the great brown eyes.  “Hello!” he said with a change of voice.  “What’s wrong, Esme?  I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m wrong!” she cried.  “I ought to have spoken long ago.  No, no!  I’m all right now!” She smiled gloriously through her tears.  “Here we are.  You’ll be sure that he’s there?”