AFTER a month of unalloyed bliss as the accepted lover of Edith Carrington, after receiving the hearty congratulations of every one on his great luck, Harold Gray was thunderstruck to receive one morning a curt note of dismissal. He had kissed the dainty writing on the outside and then opened it.

      After an emphatic word or two, which did no sort of justice to his feelings, he sat dazed. Only for a minute, however. He then drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote a letter of acceptance to an offer that had been made him a few days earlier, and which he had then refused. This acceptance meant that he would leave town the next day. That was exactly what he wanted — to leave her and everything that knew her — he would have liked to get away from himself. Her little note he did not answer, as he was much too indignant.

      He did not go, however, without an inkling of the fair Edith's reason for her unreasonable conduct. The explanation made by the prospective best man, who did not want to lose his job, only made Gray more angry.

      "On account of gambling? Why, I don't play cards one in a blue moon! What do I care if Tom Sayers does make an ass of himself over the game; it doesn't follow. that I shall. No," he added, after listening to his friend's persuasions, "if she recalls her words, all right, though even then I must go to Oregon; but if she makes no sign, I can make none. Her note was final."

      Gray did regret, however, having destroyed the note, and if he had read it next day in calmer mood, he would have detected in it a pathetic note that would have outweighed all the unconscious cruelty. He would then have sought her and there would have been no story. But the note was destroyed, so it remained in his memory as a sentence from which there was no appeal.

      Receiving no reply, Edith assured herself that she expected none, and was thoroughly miserable, though she made a point of appearing unusually gay. Of this gaiety Gray, far off in Oregon, did not fail to hear, and it added no little to his bitterness. He soon arrived at a state of philosophical resignation, nevertheless, and made the most of whatever pleasures came his way.

      After some months in Portland he located at San Francisco, and felt that he had never really lived anywhere else. The past spent in the East was a mere unsatisfactory dream. The cosmopolitan city interested him; he liked the diversity of speech, costume and race, but the beautiful, smooth stretch of water, ocean and bay, and the endless play of light and color on the hills that circled about the city, was a perpetual delight to him. From the farthest squalid sand-hill to the villa-crowned bluff, overlooking Alcatraz and the Golden Gate, he loved it. One thing, he confessed, would have made it completer — the presence of Edith Carrington. With her in such a home as this or that, he would say, as he drove by some pretty house, but he strangled the thought at birth.

      There was a jolly set of guests at the Colonial. For outdoor sport there was always the drive to the beach or the Presidio, or a wheel through the park; but the evenings in the hotel were devoted to cards. Unaccustomed to associate the great American game with women, nice women, Gray found a Piquancy in having them always in the game; and enjoyed it as he never had the occasions when he "took a hand" in the East. in the densely smoky atmosphere always surrounding a "stag" party. The presence of pretty women in their bright evening dresses, with their white hands and flashing gems, gave an artistic touch to the game. Still it did surprise him that a young lady should carry poker chips in her purse.

      It was a bright, delicious January morning, after a night of rain, that Gray found that there was at least one young woman in San Francisco who did so. He had been at the Sausalito ferry on business, and, in connection with it, strolled in to see his friend, Jones, who was ticket agent at the office which disburses pasteboards for Oakland, Alameda and Berkely. Jones was busy with the rush of ticket buyers, so Gray seated himself in a chair at the farther corner of the room with his back to the ticket window. As he sat here, thinking of all sorts of things, he was suddenly aroused.

      "Two tickets for Oakland, please."

      There was nothing to interest him in the words, for voices had been asking for tickets all the time he sat there. It was the voice itself that stirred him. An instant he sat motionless, then jumped to his feet and crossed over to his friend's side. He peered over Jones' shoulder. The square frame of the window was filled with faces, but there was not one that meant anything to him — not one that could have gone with the musical voice he had heard. He glanced beyond the group of commonplace waiting men and women to the narrow door in the wall, where people were trooping into the larger waiting-room that led to the ferry-boat. Two feminine figures were hurrying through, and, as he watched the swish of their skirts, Gray wondered what she might look like — the girl whose voice was so like Edith's.

      After musing a moment, he started to follow her and see; but before he could reach it the little door in the wall had closed, and the ringing of the bell and the rush of steam and splash of water announced to him that the Encinal had pulled out of the slip.

      "Just as well," he thought; "I have no time to go across the bay this morning." He strode back to his seat a little crestfallen, nevertheless. Jones had slammed his window down, and was laying a small pile of silver on one side, muttering as he did so.

      "And what were you 'rubber-necking' about, may I ask?" he said, as he turned at last to his friend.

      "Oh, nothing," replied Gray.

      "You wanted to see the girl that forgot her change, I suppose," Jones laughed. "It was the chips that rattled her, I fancy."

      "Chips?" said Gray vacantly.

      "Yes, I thought you must have heard them rattle. She had one of those 'dinky' purses knit out of silk, and it's a puzzle to open them and to get at her money; she shook it, and first thing out rolled a lot of poker chips. She handed me a five-dollar gold piece, turned as red as a beet, grabbed up her tickets, money and purse and rushed away without waiting for her change. She must be very new to the game or to California, or maybe both, to make a sneak for a little thing like that."

      Gray was not very much interested, but Jones went on: "You'd be surprised to see how often it occurs that people go away without waiting for their change. They usually come back for it, though, so I always put it to one side. Now, she will probably be here along about three or four o'clock."

      Gray presently took his leave, entirely oblivious of the business matter he had wanted to mention to Jones. His mind could fix itself on nothing but the sweet voice which had reminded him so strongly of Edith.

      "Surely," he told himself, "those crisp, clear tones were her own." He had told her once that were he at the antipodes he would recognize her voice. In a sort of dream he went about all day asking himself continually: "If it could be possible that Edith was, here in San Francisco? And, if she were here, did she know of his presence? Would she see him if he found her?"

      If so, nothing should prevent him finding her out if by blissful good fortune it was true that she were here. His anger had died out long ago, and he felt a hungry longing to be with her once more, to hold her hand, if not as a lover, then, at least, as a friend. She was right to dismiss him for gambling; he had heard since that it had cost Sayers a good position, and some other fellows something more. It was a bad thing, except, of course, the way he had been playing here; but even that he would gladly give up if Edith would take him back to her heart.

      To find her, that was now the burning question. Why had he not moved quicker when he started to go across the bay? Why had he not questioned Jones, who was sure to have noted so perfect a face and figure? He cursed his own stupidity, and glanced across the roofs to the clock in the Chronicle Building. It was past six, and there was just a chance that he could still catch the ticket agent, who had, he knew, rather long hours.

      He gathered his overcoat, swung himself into the outside seat of the first car, and was soon in his friend's presence. Jones was a trifle astonished to see him again so soon.

      "Pretty girl?" he replied, as Gray questioned him breathlessly. "Of course, stacks of them every day. Let me see — blonde hair and big, gray eyes, and a sort of authority and sweetness in her manner? Why, you must be in love; but I think I know who you mean. Why" — Jones' voice rose to a squeak in his excitement — "she has just gone. You must have passed her just outside. Oh, it's too late now. I saw her get into the car. But she is the girl who forgot to take her change this morning. She just came back on the half-past five' boat, and she and her young man called for it."

      Gray's face had worn a dozen different expressions during this harangue.

      "Her young man?"

      "Yes — or her husband. They may be a newly-married couple, for he is nearly always with her."

      Jones knew nothing further about the young lady, however, so Gray walked back up Market street so lost in thought that he forgot to take a car.

      "Beyond a doubt," so his thoughts ran, "Edith Carrington was Edith Carrington no longer. Nearly three years had elapsed since he had seen her, and full two since he had heard news of her. She was here probably on a wedding journey, if indeed she had not been married for months and months."

      It was with a distinct sense of loss that he entered the cozy dining-room at the "Colonial" a half-hour later and seated himself at the only table that was not dismantled. He was joined a little later by Thomas, who usually sat on the other side of the dining-room. Gray rather disliked Thomas, but he greeted him civilly. Thomas, however, was more cheerful than usual; it was his cheerfulness, somehow, that Gray objected to.

      "Hello," he remarked, "you look down in the mouth, Gambling?"

      Gray shook his 'head; but the other went on with a chuckle:

      "Well, I have lost some money to the prettiest girl in Frisco, so I don't so much mind." Gray wondered languidly what sort of a girl it would be of whom Thomas would speak in this way.

      Thomas was reminiscent, and went on in a luscious tone in which a slight lisp could be detected now and then.

      "Best lady I ever met. She seemed to know exactly when people were bluffing and when they had filled. And luck! well, I never saw anything like it. She stole the biggest pot of the evening. It was opened with jacks. She sat next the opener and raised; a man with kings and a lady with aces up dropped out after the draw, seeing that she stood pat; then the opener dropped out. She kept on raising, and I kept on going one better, for I suspected a bluff, somehow. She had a guitar in her lap, and she picked lightly at the strings and hummed "Paloma," and looked so saucy and sweet and secure that I couldn't give in as long as I had a chip."

      "So you called at last?" said Gray.

      "When I was a whole stack shy I had to, and she only had an ace high."

      Gray joined Thomas in his laugh.

      He fancied he could see the fair girl, with her light hair perhaps the least bit ruffled over her white brow, and her saucy smile and song.

      "But you had ——"

      "I? Oh, I only had a ten spot, not a thing in my hand. The people who had laid down were crazy. When she had raked in three of the five pots in the round of jacks I proposed a 'Consolation' and a 'Tiger.' They had none of them ever heard of these things, but they all agreed. I took the 'Consolation,' which was small, and she swiped the 'Tiger,' which was large. I tell you, Gray, I lost my meal ticket that time."

      "I think I'd like to meet that young lady. Can't you introduce me?"

      "Sure Mike. We got even one way, anyhow. She kept her money in one of these little red silk puzzles, where the thing you want is always at the bottom and everything else on top."

      Thomas applied himself earnestly to his dessert, which the white-capped waitress had just brought in. He did not notice how curious a look passed over Gray's face. Another knit purse!

      "Her cousins and I didn't do a thing but fill that purse, when her head was turned, with poker chips, and when she next dives into it won't she be surprised! I only hope it will be in church."

      Gray beamed upon the insignificant figure before him.

      "Perhaps she doesn't go?"

      "Oh, yes, she does. She's orthodox; I heard them teasing her about gambling when she had once thought it so dreadful."

      Everything seemed to spin around Gray, and he himself seemed a teetotum. He steadied his voice, however, when he spoke.

      "Can you make a date for us soon?"

      "Oh, yes. I'll telephone over there now."

      Thomas dried his fingers leisurely and pushed away his bowl. A little later Gray could hear Thomas in the telephone closet asking: "Is this Mrs. Verdier?" and the answer seemed affirmative.

      It is hard to say why Gray did not ask Thomas plumply the name of the brilliant lady; but it is certain he did not, and Thomas somehow never happened to mention it. Perhaps Gray feared disappointment and wished to put it off as long as possible; perhaps he would not acknowledge that he had any hope.

      At all events, Gray was as pale and nervous as Thomas was chipper and cheerful when the two were shown into Mrs. Verdier's pretty home on Broadway. Ushered into a quaint apartment, half hall, half sitting-room, they could hear close at hand the soft tinkle of a guitar and the rich tones of a piano in accompaniment. Edith did not play a guitar that ever Gray knew.

      There was a blur on his eyes as the crowd of merry people trooped down the two steps from what seemed to be a music-room. In spite of the blur he saw her.

      It was Edith Carrington, and Miss Carrington was the name that Thomas pronounced. After a while the blur passed away somewhat, and Gray distinguished that Mrs. Verdier, a handsome brunette, and two fair, boyish young men were in the room. Also a dignified man of middle age, who seemed to be Mr. Verdier.

      Gray now remembered hearing of an old schoolmate of Edith's who had married and settled in California. He hoped he had done the proper thing; he could remember hearing Thomas lisp out the names of all these people, but he had not understood them, nor seen them, nor anything, in fact, but Edith, arch, gay and beautiful — how much more beautiful even than of old!

      They played poker, Gray losing everything by sheer inability to think of his hand. Twice he drew to pairs. Often he failed to open a jack-pot when he held a flush or full; and did open, to his dismay, on what not being bettered, proved to have been a bobtail. Apart from the rest in the music-room, he found an opportunity of saying a word, of taking her hand, and he knew at last that all was right between them.

      The next day a long call and a full explanation occurred.

      "Tom Sayers, you know, was such a dear, good fellow," she told Gray, as he sat with an ecstatic countenance before her, "and cards just did spoil him, and made Sue so unhappy; and after we heard of you playing, Sue was horrified, and somehow she got me to promise that I would never marry a card player. And then after you left, and Tom heard why, he quit. And then he seemed so lonesome that just to please him Sue and I learned, and we used to have great games together. So now I only disapprove of gambling when there are no ladies in the game, or, perhaps, when ——"

      "You yourself are not in?"

      Edith nodded.

      "But, darling," said Gray softly, "I do not see but what your vow holds good. You have promised not to marry a card-player."

      She lifted her eyebrows.

      "What of that? After this evening no one can ever persuade me that you are a poker player."

      When instant revenge had been taken for this saucy speech, Gray said:

      "So it was really gambling that made me lose you?"

      "Nothing else."

      "But it was cards that brought us together again."

      Then he told her, how hearing her voice at the Oakland ferry had started him on her trail, and how vainly he might have looked had it not been for the lucky chance of those chips in her purse.

      "What a lot of little links?" she murmured, softly, "in the chain of happenings, all so trivial, and yet each one necessary to bring you to me."

      "No, no, no, I must have found you anyhow. It was written."

      There was a wedding from Trinity church a few months later, for Gray would not permit Edith to leave him again. Among the wedding presents, not the least valued, was a very complete outfit of poker chips from Richard Thomas, who, with his cheerful lisp and hearty laugh, is a welcome friend and guest always at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gray.