Often too Alan read from books, called in the masters of the pen to set the listener’s eager mind atravel through wondrous, unexplored worlds.  Best of all perhaps were the twilight hours when Alan quoted long passages of poetry from memory, lending to the magic of the poet’s art his own magic of voice and intonation.  These were wonderful moments to Dick, moments he was never to forget.  He drank deep of the soul vintage which the other man offered him out of the abundance of his experience as a life long pilgrim in the service of beauty.

It was a curious relation—­this growing friendship between the two men.  In some respects they were as master and pupil, in others were as man and man, friend and friend, almost brother and brother.  When Alan Massey gave at all he gave magnificently without stint or reservation.  He did now.  And when he willed to conquer he seldom if ever failed.  He did not now.  He won, won first his cousin’s liking, respect, and gratitude and finally his loyal friendship and something else that was akin to reverence.

Tony Holiday’s name was seldom mentioned between the two.  Perhaps they feared that with the name of the girl they both loved there might return also the old antagonistic forces which had already wrought too much havoc.  Both sincerely desired peace and amity and therefore the woman who held both their hearts in her keeping was almost banished from the talk of the sick room though she was far from forgotten by either.

So things went on.  In time Dick was judged by the physician well enough to take the long journey back to New York.  Alan secured the tickets, made all the arrangements, permitting Dick not so much as the lifting of a finger in his own behalf.  And just then came Tony Holiday’s letter to Alan telling him she was his whenever he wanted her since he had cleared the shield forever in her eyes by what he had done for Dick.  She trusted him, knew he would not ask her to marry him unless he was quite free morally and every other way to ask her.  She wanted him, could not be surer of his love or her own if she waited a dozen years.  He meant more to her than her work, more than her beloved freedom more even than Holiday Hill itself although she felt that she was not so much deserting the Hill as bringing Alan to it.  The others would learn to love him too.  They must, because she loved him so much!  But even if they did not she had made her choice.  She belonged to him first of all.

“But think, dear,” she finished.  “Think well before you take me.  Don’t come to me at all unless you can come free, with nothing on your soul that is going to prevent your being happy with me.  I shall ask no questions if you come.  I trust you to decide right for us both because you lave me in the high way as well as all the other ways.”

Alan took this letter of Tony’s out into the night, walked with it through flaming valleys of hell.  She was his.  Of her own free will she had given herself to him, placed him higher in her heart at last than even her sacred Hill.  And yet after all the Hill stood between them, in the challenge she flung at him.  She was his to take if he could come free.  She left the decision to him.  She trusted him.