THE REMORSE OF WONDERING NANCY She awoke to the sun, glad-hearted and made newly buoyant by one of those soundless black sleeping-nights that come only to the town-tired when they have first fled.

She ran to the glass to know if the restoration she felt might also be seen.

With unbiassed calculation the black-fringed lids drew apart and one hand pushed back of the temple, and held there, a tangled skein of hair that had thrown the dusk of a deep wood about her eyes.

Then, as she looked, came the little dreaming smile that unfitted critic eyes for their office; a smile that wakened to a laugh as she looked--a little womanish chuckle of confident joy, as one alone speaking aloud in an overflowing moment.
An hour later she was greeting Bernal where the sun washed through the big room.
"Young life sings in me!" she said, and felt his lightening eyes upon her lips as she smiled.
There were three days of it--days in which, however, she grew to fear those eyes, lest they fall upon her in judgment.

She now saw that his eyes had changed most.