’ Melusine sobered, sitting down again. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. His literary instincts began to stir. One of his converted Kanakas dropped in one day. “It is hard to express one’s self, but I do want to be honest with you. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Know that, don’t you?’ ‘Of course I know it,’ Lucy told him, and Melusine read the whisper in her mouth of those precious words, ‘I love you.
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