realized that there was a stronger reason than her fear of derision that held her back from telling.

"It's the face," she told herself. "That poor little kiddie's face. It wasn't beautiful, no, not quite that, but appealing, frankly, fearlessly appealing. If I saw her take a book I couldn't believe that she meant to steal it, or at least that it was she who willed it."

"But fi-fum," she laughed a low laugh, throwing back her head until her hair danced over her white shoulders like a golden shower, "why borrow trouble? She probably took nothing. It was but a childish prank."

At that she threw back the covers of her bed, thrust her feet deep down beneath them and lay down to rest. Tomorrow was Sunday; no work, no study. There would be plenty of time to think.

She believed that she had dismissed the scene in the library from her mind, yet even as she fell asleep, something seemed to tell her that she was mistaken, that the child had really stolen a book, that there were breakers ahead.

And that something whispered truth, for this little incident was but the beginning of a series of adventures such as a college girl seldom is called upon to experience. Being ignorant of all this, she fell asleep to dream sweet dreams while the moon out of a cloudless sky, beaming down upon the faultless campus, seemed at times to take one look in at her open window.

CHAPTER II
ELUSIVE SHAKESPEARE

The sun had been up for more than an hour when on the following morning Lucile lifted her head sleepily and looked at the clock.

"Sunday morning. I'm glad!" she exclaimed as she leaped out of bed and raced away for a cold shower.

As she dressed she experienced a sensation of something unfinished and at the same time a desire to hide something, to defend someone. At first she could not understand what it all meant. Then, like a flash, the occurrence of the previous night flashed upon her.

"Oh, that," she breathed.

She was surprised to find that her desire to shield the child had gained tremendously in strength while she slept. Perhaps there are forces we know nothing of, which work on the inner, hidden chambers of our mind while we sleep, and having worked there, leave impressions which determine our very destinies.

Lucile was not 

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