“Go, away” said his voice, rather abstracted than angry.

“May I try the keys?” I asked.  Be still, my Heart!  For the scraching had ceased.

“Who’s that?” asked the beloved voice.  I say `beloved’ because an Ideal is always beloved.  The voice was beloved, but sharp.

“It’s me.”

I heard him mutter somthing, and I think he came to the Door.

“Look here,” he said.  “Go away.  Do you understand?  I want to work.  And don’t come near here again until seven o’clock.”

“Very well,” I said faintly.

“And then come without fail,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Beecher,” I replied.  How commanding he was!  Strong but tender!

“And if anyone comes around making a noise, before that, you shoot them for me, will you?”

“Shoot them?”

“Drive them off, or use a Bean-shooter.  Anything.  But don’t yell at them.  It distracts me.”

It was a Sacred trust.  I, and only I, stood between him and his magnum
OPUM.  I sat down on the steps of our bath-house, and took up my vigel.

It was about five o’clock when I heard Jane approaching.  I knew it was Jane, because she always wears tight shoes, and limps when unobserved.  Although having the reputation of the smallest foot of any girl in our set in the city, I prefer Comfort and Ease, unhampered by heals—­French or otherwise.  No man will ever marry a girl because she wears a small shoe, and catches her heals in holes in the Boardwalk, and has to soak her feet at night before she can sleep.  However——­

Jane came on, and found me croutched on the doorstep, in a lowly attatude, and holding my finger to my lips.

She stopped and stared at me.

“Hello,” she said.  “What do you think you are?  A Statue?”

“Hush, Jane,” I said, in a low tone.  “I can only ask you to be quiet and speak in Whispers.  I cannot give the reason.”

“Good heavens!” she whispered.  “What has happened, Bab?”

“It is happening now, but I cannot explain.”

“What is happening?”

“Jane,” I whispered, ernestly, “you have known me a long time and I have always been Trustworthy, have I not?”

She nodded.  She is never exactly pretty, and now she had opened her mouth and forgot to close it.

“Then ask No Questions.  Trust me, as I am trusting you.”  It seemed to me that Mr. Beecher through his pen at the door, and began to pace the bath-house.  Owing of course to his being in his bare feet, I was not certain.  Jane heard somthing, to, for she clutched my arm.

“Bab,” she said, in intence tones, “if you don’t explain I shall lose my mind.  I feel now that I am going to shreik.”

She looked at me searchingly.

“Sombody is a Prisoner.  That’s all.”

It was the truth, was it not?  And was there any reasons for Jane Raleigh to jump to conclusions as she did, and even to repeat later in Public that I had told her that my lover had come for me, and that father had locked him up to prevent my running away with him, imuring him in the Patten’s bath-house?  Certainly not.