At length she snapped her head, as Spike Brennon would when now and again a clean blow reached his jaw, pushed the untouched dessert from her with a gesture of repugnance, and went aloft to her own little room.

Here she sat at her neat desk of bird's eye maple, opened her journal, and across a blank page wrote in her fine, firm hand, "What Life Means to Me." It had seemed to her that it meant much.

She would fill many pages.

The name of Lyman Teaford would not there appear, yet his influence would be continuously present.

She was not stricken as had been another reader of that fateful bit of news.