"Well, I ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' I'm
beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n I am," said he
proudly.
"He isn't half as good!" she cried.
"I mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically.
"So do I," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.
There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the
news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had "gone
off" since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away
temporarily. Rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still,
cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to
her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to
him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have
entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the
New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling
on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.
Rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness
left her cheek as the weeks went by. Her every thought was with the man
who had gone to the Southland. She loved him as she loved life, but she
could not confess to him then or thereafter unless Providence made clear
the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. When finally there
came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far South,
the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her
heart.
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