Deena left the room, her face buried in her handkerchief, but she managed to answer brokenly:

"I will—not—allow—you—to call—my husband—'a bag of bones'!"

CHAPTER VI.

The house the young Minthrops had taken was of a contracted luxury that oppressed Deena, accustomed as she was to space and sunshine at Harmouth. She told Ben that fortunes in New York could be gauged by the amount of light the individual could afford—billionaires had houses standing free, with light on four sides; millionaires had corner houses with light on three sides; while ordinary mortals lived in tunnels more or less magnificent where electric light had often to do duty for the sun. Ben declared that his income only admitted light fore and aft, but that with skillful decoration they could at least travesty the sunshine, and so they tried to reproduce its effects by wall hangings of faint yellow and pale green, by chintz-covered bedrooms that seemed to blossom with roses, and living rooms sweet with fresh flowers. There was no solemn mahogany—no light-absorbing color on door or window; all was delicately bright and gay as the tinting of the spring.

Deena worked hard to get the house ready for Polly, who was still in Boston with her mother-in-law, and seemed quite content to leave the arranging of her new quarters to her sister and husband, who preceded her by several weeks; indeed, she was becoming so accustomed to being waited upon that she considered herself in a fair way of being spoiled. An heir was expected, and an heir seemed a very important thing to the elder Minthrops. They treated Polly as a queen bee, and the rest of the world as slaves to wait upon her. She was behaving in a way to satisfy their requirements in a daughter-in-law, and life was to be smoothed accordingly.

Every day brought a fresh suggestion covered by a check. Ben was invited to select a high-stepping gray horse—a pair of cobs—a tiny brougham—a victoria—a piano—a pianola. Deena shopped till she almost sank exhausted, and yet the requests kept coming. If dear Mrs. Ponsonby didn't mind the trouble, perhaps Polly might be warmer with sable rugs—perhaps an extra sofa in her room might induce her to lie down oftener—perhaps a few of those charming lace and linen tablecloths might make her feel like giving little dinners at home instead of fatiguing herself by going out to find her amusements.

Deena would have been more than mortal if the image of old Mrs. Ponsonby had not risen before her eyes in forbidding contrast to so much indulgence. She realized that the genus mother-in-law has widely differing species, and yet in her heart she doubted whether Mrs. Minthrop, with money to anticipate every wish of her only son, loved him a whit more than frugal, self-denying Mother Ponsonby had loved her Simeon. Lavishness or thrift, alike they proved a mother's affection.

Deena executed all the commissions without a shadow of covetousness and rejoiced in her sister's good fortune; it was reserved for Polly and Ben, when they took up their life in New York, to show her the depths of her own loneliness by the fullness of their comradeship, and her yearning needs by their mutual devotion.

Polly arrived one bleak December day, the week before Christmas, escorted by Mrs. Minthrop and two maids, and was met at the Grand Central by her husband in a state of boyish excitement. His delight in having his wife with him once more was so genuine that Deena forgave him an amount of fussiness she never before suspected in his easy-going nature. He altered his orders half a dozen times as to which carriage should bring her from the train to the house, and finally ordered both; he repeated half a dozen times the hour at which the Boston express was due, in order that Deena might make no mistake about having tea served to the minute, and when he had shut the front door, on his way to the Grand Central, he came tearing back to ask the menu for dinner, as Polly was apt to be fanciful about her food. Deena remembered the time—not two years ago—when it was quantity rather than quality that balked Polly's appetite, and nearly laughed in his face, but she loved her big brother-in-law for his forethought.

The curtains were drawn and the lights turned up before the bustle of arrival drew Deena to the stairs. First old Mrs. Minthrop came, stopping to commend the house at every step, and then Polly, with her arm linked in her husband's, chattering volubly at the delight everything gave her; and Deena, wedged between the elder lady and the wall in cordial greeting, could not help hearing Ben welcome his wife to her own home with a sentiment she never suspected in him before. Polly flew to her sister and kissed and thanked her for all she had done, and lavished her praises broadcast, and then she insisted upon pouring out the tea at her own fireside, and Ben perched on the arm of her chair; and once, when Deena turned suddenly from handing the toast to Mrs. Minthrop, she saw him kiss Polly's hair.

Her thoughts sped back to her parting with Simeon, with its prosaic formality—-the feel of his puckered lips brushing her forehead. What a lack of imagination marked all his dealings with her! She felt rebellious and sad; not that she wanted any of the luxury that surrounded Polly, but she was hungry for love. She saw suddenly what marriage ought to be, and the realization frightened her. How was it she had committed this crime against her own nature? Was it her sin or her parents' that she had been so blind? Not Simeon's—she exonerated him, she knew he had given her as much of himself as he had to spare, and that his conduct was uniform; what it had been at the beginning was now and for all time, and if she had suddenly become a connoisseur in husbands she was not the first woman to whom knowledge brought misery. It was not Simeon's fault that he remained stationary while her views expanded. Fortunately for Deena's peace of mind, it was Ben who figured in these reflections as the exponent of what a husband should be, and she had no suspicion that it was Stephen French who had waked her from her domestic coma.

Poor sleeping beauty, her conscience had long ago been pricked by her mother-in-law's spindle, and her whole moral sense infected with the belief that to keep house wisely was the end and aim of wifely duty. She reverenced Simeon for his learning and dignity, and felt proud that so simple a person as herself should have been chosen in marriage by a professor of Harmouth. On that she had existed for two years, and now she was waking up to new needs that stirred her like the prince's kiss.

Life in the young Minthrops' dovecote soon settled down into a glorified routine. The elder Mrs. Minthrop returned to Boston, leaving Deena as her lieutenant, and perplexing her with the multiplicity of her charges; apparently Mrs. Ponsonby was to be Providence to her sister, with health and happiness under her control. The situation was paradoxical. Polly was to be denied nothing, but not allowed to have her own way too freely; she was to be kept amused, but most amusements were strictly prohibited—she was not to be encouraged to think herself an invalid, and at the same time her usual occupations were taken from her. Deena was wise enough to listen and make no promises, and when she assumed command she contented herself with trying to stand between her sister and domestic worries.

Christmas came and went without the visit from Stephen, which Ben had hoped for, and invitations were pouring in for the plethora of social functions that mark the season's height. Deena came in for her share, but she felt too much of a stranger to venture alone into the vortex. Polly entertained in a modest way at home—a few people at dinner, a friend or two at lunch—and this Deena greatly enjoyed, and had begun to make herself favorably known to a small circle when a stop was put to this mild dissipation. The great doctor, who had been charged by Mrs. Minthrop never to forget her daughter-in-law's inexperience, issued orders that Polly was to stay in her room. This enforced quiet found an outlet in a desire to send Deena everywhere. She drove her forth to dinners and balls, and the high-stepping gray horse was always at her service, and so the beautiful Mrs. Ponsonby became the fashion. New York does not ask too many questions in these days about the husbands of handsome married women who appear as grass widows in its midst; indeed, the suspicion of a latent romance or scandal gives a flavor to the interest, and Deena suffered not a whit from the rumor that she was a deserted wife, with money.

"Oh, yes, there is a husband," the great Mrs. Star admitted. "She married him for his money, and he has a hobby—fossils, I think it is—and he has gone to collect them at Cape Horn. She bears his absence surprisingly well, doesn't she? Old Mrs. Minthrop's son married the sister, and she begged me to be civil to them. I forget who she said they were, but Mayflower people, you know."

In this way Deena was passed on, stamped with the hall-mark of the Mayflower. Mrs. Shelton had contributed very generously to her daughter's outfit for the season in New York. The black velvet picture dress was only one of several found suitable for her use in the trunk of finery belonging to the Chicago cousin, and the jewels that had come into the Shelton family from the same source were worthy of Deena's beauty. Her clothes were good, and she wore them like a princess.

One evening late in January, Deena and Ben were dining with a gay young matron, who, without any especial personal charm herself, had the faculty of drawing to her house the best element society had to offer. The engagement had been made for them by Polly, much against her husband's wishes, and his anxiety at leaving her alone could hardly be concealed during dinner. As soon as the ladies left the table he excused himself to his host, and, following the little hostess into the drawing room, he whispered a few words in her ear, nodded to Deena and disappeared.

"Your brother-in-law has gone home to his wife, Mrs. Ponsonby," said the hostess. "I have never seen such devotion." She laughed a trifle enviously; her own infelicities were the talk of the town.

Deena started forward in alarm.

"Was he sent for? Is my sister ill?" she inquired, nervously, and then sank back in her chair, smiling, when she found it was only a phase of young Minthropism.

While her own daylight hours were given to her sister, she was always pleased to be out of the way in the evening—it left the lovers to themselves—though she could not quite free herself from a sense of responsibility to the elder Mrs. Minthrop.

Mrs. Star, who was beside Deena, gave a sniff—if so fine a lady could be suspected of such a plebeian way of marking her disapprobation.

"My dear," she said, "why should your charming sister be treated as a prisoner over whom somebody must perpetually keep watch? I have had six children—they were all healthy and had their full complement of legs and arms—except Bob, who lost an arm in the Spanish war, but that doesn't count—and I never was shut up in my room before I had to be—nor put on a milk diet—nor forbidden reasonable exercise—and I think the modern doctors are full of fads and greed. Their bills! I don't know who is rich enough to be ill nowadays!" Here she shut her eyes and trembled to think of the portion of her own great fortune that might have transferred itself to the doctor's pockets if her nursery had not antedated the present school. "It may not seem very expensive to young Mrs. Minthrop to lie on her sofa and drink milk—but just wait till she comes to pay for it!"

"I don't believe anyone will care about the bill, Mrs. Star," said Deena, "so long as Polly keeps well."

"It is bad enough to have food and exercise taken away from the young mothers," continued Mrs. Star, who was evidently mounted on a hobby, "but when helpless infants are deprived of their natural sustenance and fed from bottles filled in a laboratory and stuffed with cotton, it is time for the Gerry Society to interfere. Cruelty to children is practiced far more by the rich than by the poor, in my opinion, and if you want to see cases of inanition and feeble spines, I'll show you where to look for them, and it won't be in the tenements!"

Deena wanted to laugh, but didn't dare to; the old lady proclaimed her fierce sentiments with such earnest gravity. She managed, however, to say politely:

"You think that science has not improved upon nature in rearing the race, but you must remember that it finds the higher classes existing under unnatural conditions."

"The conditions would do very well if we could banish the doctors," said the old lady, testily. "I am out of patience with their incubators and their weighing machines and their charts and their thermometers—yes, and their baby nurses! What do you suppose I heard a mother say to her own servant the other day: 'Please, nurse, may I take the baby up? He is crying fearfully,' and the nurse, who had reluctantly put down the morning paper, said: 'No, m'am, when he cries in that angry way, he must learn that it is useless!' His age was six weeks."

Deena burst into a hearty laugh.

"My dear Mrs. Star," she said, "I am a convert."

Mrs. Star wagged her head in approbation.

"Just tell your sister what I have said, will you?" she pursued, afraid that so much wisdom might be lost. "And, my dear, since your brother-in-law has gone home, suppose you come along to the opera with me. I sent some tickets to a few stray men, and I must look in before the last act."

At this point they were joined by the gentlemen, and as soon as decency would permit, Mrs. Star made her adieux, followed by Deena. The Minthrop brougham was dismissed, and the ladies whirled away in Mrs. Star's electric carriage. She at once took up her parable, but this time the topic was not the care of infants.

"I think a great deal of the scenic effect of an opera box," she said. "I always dress with respect to the hangings, and I never take a discordant color beside me if I can help it. You happen to please me very much this evening; I like the simplicity of the white dress. Still, it wouldn't be anything if you didn't have such a neck—it gives an air to any low gown."

"It was my wedding dress," said Deena, frankly, "and my sister's maid rearranged it for me. I am glad you like it."

"Your wedding dress," said Mrs. Star, reflectively. "I think I heard you had married a naturalist—prehistoric bones, is it not? Very interesting subject—so inspiring. Milliken"—to the footman, who opened the door on their arrival at the opera house—"you may keep the carriage here. I shall not be more than half an hour."

Half an hour for the enjoyment of a pleasure that cost her, yearly, a moderate fortune!

On their way through the foyer to the box, Deena ventured to disclaim for her husband a peculiar interest in fossils.

"My husband is a botanist," she began, and then desisted when she saw her companion's attention was barely held by a desire to be civil.

"Ah, indeed!" Mrs. Star vaguely responded. "Delightful topic. I went into it myself quite extensively when I was a girl."

Deena was not often malicious, but she couldn't help wishing Simeon could have stood by to hear this announcement of a girlish mastery of his life's work. She tried to think in what dry words he would have rebuked the levity, but before she could arrange a phrase quite in character, they were in the front of the box, and in the obscurity some one took her hand, and Stephen French's voice murmured:

"What a piece of luck that I should see you to-night! I have only been in town a few hours, and obeyed my aunt's summons to the opera as a means of keeping myself from Ben's house till the morning. You can't think how eager I have been to see you again, Mrs. Ponsonby."

There was a strange break in his voice, as if he were trying to restrain the rush of happiness.

All the six mighty artists who made the opera the marvel it was were combining their voices in the closing sextet of the fourth act, and Deena, thrilled by the loveliness of the music and, perhaps, by the surprise of French's presence, felt she was trembling with excitement.

"Fancy meeting you here!" she kept repeating, the stupid phrase concealing the great joy that was puzzling her conscience.

"What is so wonderful in my being in my aunt's opera box?" Stephen demanded. "Cannot a professor of zoology like music, or do you object to a bachelor owning an aunt?"

How pleasant it was to hear his kind voice, with its good-natured raillery! But that was sub-conscious pleasure—her immediate attention was busy with the first part of his speech about his aunt's opera box; she never supposed he had any relations.

"Who is your aunt?" she asked, abruptly.

"Mrs. Star," he answered. "Don't you see the family likeness?"

And oddly enough, in the half light, there was a distinct resemblance in the profile of the bewigged old lady to her handsome young kinsman's. Deena regretted both the likeness and the relationship; it made her uncomfortable to know that Stephen was the nephew of this worldly-minded old lady, with her fictitious standards and her enormous riches; it seemed to place a barrier between them and to lift him out of the simplicity of his college setting.

"Have I become a snob in this Relentless City'?" she exclaimed. "I find my whole idea of you changed by this announcement. It depresses me! You seem to me a different person here, with these affiliations of fashion and grandeur, than when I thought of you simply as Simeon's friend."

"Don't think of me simply as Simeon's friend," he pleaded, half in fun, half in sinful earnest.

"I never shall again," she said, sadly. "Your greatest charm is eclipsed by this luxury—I want you to belong to Harmouth only."

Stephen's lips were twitching with suppressed amusement.

"There is a proverb, my dear lady," he said, "of the pot and the kettle, that you may recall. I am not sure but what I may find a word to say to you upon the cruelty of disturbing associations."

"To me!" she said, turning to him with the gentle dignity that was her crowning charm. "Surely there are no surprises in me."

Stephen shook his head in mock disapproval as he allowed his eyes to sweep from the topmost curl of her head to her slipper points, and then he said:

"Go home, Mrs. Ponsonby, and take off that white lace evening dress, and perhaps the wreath of holly might come, too—and that diamond star on your bodice; and put on, instead—let me see—the dark blue frock you wore the evening I told Simeon about the Patagonian expedition, and then you will be in a position to reproach me for any relapse from the simplicity of Harmouth. If you disapprove of me as the nephew of my aunt, how do you suppose I feel about you? And oh! my stars! what would Simeon say?"

"Simeon," she said, faintly. "You are right; Simeon might not understand——" and before French had time to protest that he had only been teasing her, the curtain went down, strange men came flocking into the box, Mrs. Star was introducing a Russian grand duke, and Stephen, surrendering his chair, withdrew to the other side of his aunt.

Deena could not but admire the old lady's admirable manner. She kept up an easy chatter, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, with the Russian and with a Spanish artist; she never allowed Deena to feel out of touch with the conversation, and in the midst of it all she managed to welcome her nephew.

"You are stopping at my house, of course, Stephen? No—at the Savoy? That is uncharitable to a lonely old woman. Where did you know that pretty creature, Mrs. Ponsonby?" she asked, seeing that the two foreigners were absorbing the attention of her beautiful protegee. "You should learn to guard the expression of your face, my dear boy. I begin to understand why you cling so obstinately to Harmouth. I see the place has advantages outside the work of the college."

Here she wagged her head in self-congratulation at her own astuteness, and Stephen flushed angrily.

"Hush!" he said. "She will hear you. You have little knowledge of Mrs. Ponsonby if you think she would permit the attentions of any man. She is not in the least that kind of person. She is one of the most dignified, self-respecting, high-minded women I ever knew."

Mrs. Star cut him short with a wave of her fan.

"Spare me the rhapsodies," she laughed. "You merely mark the stage of the disease you have arrived at. The object of your love sits enthroned! If the husband is wise he will throw his fossils into the sea and come back to look after this pretty possession. Flesh and blood is worth more than dry bones."

"Ponsonby is a botanist," Stephen corrected, grimly, while his inward thought was that the dry bones were Simeon's own; and then, ashamed of the disloyal—though unspoken—sneer, he went back to Deena and began talking volubly of his last letter from her husband.

They had both had letters from Simeon, now safely arrived in the Straits of Magellan. He had written to Deena when they first cast anchor off the Fuegian shore. He described to her the visits of the Indians in their great canoes, containing their entire families and possessions, and the never-dying fire of hemlock on a clay hearth in the middle of the boat; how they would sell their only garment—a fur cloak—-for tobacco and rum, and how friendly they seemed to be, in spite of all the stories of cannibalism told by early voyagers.

In the midst of this earnest conversation, Mrs. Star rose to go, escorted by the grand duke, and Stephen, following with Deena, was able to let his enthusiasm rise above a whisper when they gained the corridor.

"Didn't he tell you that they were all going guanaco hunting?"

"Simeon!" in a tone of incredulity.

"Greatest fun in the world, I am told," pursued French; "something like stag hunting, only more exciting—done with the bolas. You whirl it round your head and let it fly, and it wraps itself round a beast's legs and bowls him over before he knows what hit him."

"Does it kill him?" asked Deena, shrinking from the miseries of the hunted.

"Only knocks him over," explained Stephen. "You finish him with your knife."

"Sport is a cruel thing," she said, shuddering. "I am glad Simeon cannot even ride."

"Can't ride!" repeated Stephen. "Indeed, I can tell you he means to. He says the Indians have offered him the best mount they have. They considered him a medicine man, on account of his root-digging propensities, and treated him as the high cockalorum of the whole ship's company."

"Surely he is joking," she said. "Simeon is making game of you."

"Simeon!" he echoed, mimicking her incredulous tone.

"A joke would be no stranger to him than a horse," she said, smiling.

They had reached the entrance, and Deena stood shaking with suppressed laughter. "Fancy! Simeon!" she repeated.

"And why not Simeon, pray?" asked Stephen, slightly nettled.

A vision of Simeon with his gold-rimmed spectacles and stooped figure mounted on horseback in the midst of a party of Indians, whirling his bolas over his head and shouting, presented itself to Deena's imagination. The carriage was waiting, and, obeying Mrs. Star's motion to get in first, Simeon Ponsonby's wife fell back on the seat and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.

Outside, Stephen was entreating to be allowed to visit her the next morning.

"I haven't half finished my story, Mrs. Ponsonby," he protested.

And Deena managed to steady her voice and invite him to lunch the next day.

CHAPTER VII.

French's visit to New York was not the result of any weakening resolution in regard to his neighbor's wife; the object was business. His property was chiefly in real estate, and the distinguished law firm who managed his affairs had summoned him to confer with a tenant who was desirous of becoming a purchaser. Being in the same town with Deena, he decided that he could not well avoid visiting her, to say nothing of Ben. It was his misfortune that every meeting made his self-discipline harder, for, if they lived, he had got to see her under still more trying circumstances—reunited with a husband who misunderstood her.

These thoughts passed through his mind the morning after their encounter at the opera, as he finished his breakfast at the Savoy. He had an appointment at his lawyers' at ten o'clock, and at the Minthrops' for luncheon at half-past one. The first, if properly conducted, might result in a largely increased income; the second in self-repression and a heartache; and yet his one idea was to dispatch the business, so that no precious moments of Deena's society should be lost to him.

He was hurrying out of the hotel to go downtown, when a telegram was put into his hand. For the detached bachelor such messages have little interest. Stephen opened this one as casually as most people open an advertisement—may the foul fiend fly away with those curses of our daily mail!—and read:

BUENOS AYRES, Jan. 30. PEDRO LOPEZ to the HON'BLE PROFESSOR FRENCH, Harmouth University.

Tintoretto on its way home. Ponsonby missing.

Stephen read the dispatch several times before he quite understood its significance. Pedro Lopez was his South American friend, who had set on foot the Fuegian expedition and applied to Harmouth for a botanist; the Tintoretto was the vessel furnished by the Argentine Government.

The cable message had gone to Harmouth and been repeated to New York, probably by Stephen's butler.

The first effect of evil tidings is apt to be superficial. We receive a mental impression rather than a shock to the heart. We are for the moment spectators of our own misfortunes, as if the blow had produced a paralysis to the feelings, leaving the intellect clear.

Stephen went back to his own room conscious of no emotion except intense curiosity as to what had become of Simeon, though, perhaps, far back in his mind anxiety was settling down to its work of torture.

He flung himself into a chair near the window which overlooked the entrance to the park and let his eyes gaze blankly at the busy scene. It had snowed during the night, and sleighs were dashing in and out under the leafless arches of the trees. Bells were tinkling, gay plumes of horsehair floating from the front of the Russian sleighs and the turrets of the horses' harness, men and women wrapped in costly furs were being whirled along, laughing and chatting, through the crisp morning air.

Stephen didn't know he was receiving an impression—he thought his mind was at a standstill, but whenever in the future that terrible day came back to his memory, he always saw a picture, as it were, of the brilliant procession dashing into the city's playground, while Saint Gaudens' statue of Sherman stood watching, grim and cold, with the snow on his mantle and his Victory in a winding sheet.

It was not very long before French was able to pull himself together and to face the situation. What did it mean? Had Simeon lost himself in the Patagonian wilds or was he drowned? French felt that he couldn't carry such an uncertain report to Deena, the strain upon her would be too great. It was horrible to have to tell her at all, but he must try to make the news definite—not vague. Gradually he thought out a course of action; he would telegraph to Lopez to send him a detailed account, cabling the answer at his expense, and until this reply came he thought himself justified in concealing the news. Lopez was in constant communication with the expedition, and the letter which had announced Ponsonby's disappearance must have gone into particulars.

After dispatching this cable he kept his appointment in Wall Street, transacting the business with the dull precision of a person in a hypnotic sleep, and then presented himself at the Minthrops' a few minutes before the lunch hour. He had not been prepared to find Deena installed as hostess, and her manner of greeting him and presiding at the lunch table was so assured, so different from the timid hospitality she was wont to offer under Simeon's roof, that her whole personality seemed changed. She more than ever satisfied his admiring affection, but she was so unlike the Mrs. Ponsonby of Harmouth that he felt like confiding to this gracious, sympathetic woman the tragedy that threatened her other self.

Early in the day, before that woeful message came, he had counted the minutes he could spend with her, and now he was timing his visit so as to curtail it to the least possible duration, and taxing his ingenuity as to how best to avoid seeing her alone. It was Saturday, and he trusted to the half holiday for the protection of Ben's presence; his depression of spirits would be less noticeable in general conversation.

He arrived on the stroke of the hour set for lunch, and to his chagrin was shown to the library, where Deena was sitting alone. His trouble deepened, for, after motioning him to a chair beside her, she resumed her embroidery and said, with a quizzical expression:

"You were in the midst of Simeon's last letter when we parted last evening, Mr. French; please go on with it. You may remember you left my unfortunate husband pledged to become a horseman."

Stephen could not respond to her merry mood; his anxiety was to steer the conversation away from Simeon, and he had run against a snag at the start.

"At all events, I left him safely surrounded by friends," he said—more in answer to his own feelings than her banter.

In thinking over any disaster, the mind loves to dwell on the peaceful moments that preceded it. Stephen found comfort in recalling the gay tone of Simeon's letter, his delight in his coming adventure, and the good feeling that evidently existed between him and the ship's company.

Deena took exception to his remark.

"You have strange ideas of safety!" she laughed. "Not content with mounting a confirmed pedestrian on a wild horse of the Pampas, you must needs turn him loose among a horde of savages. The hunt had not taken place when he wrote, had it? It is a pity, for I should like Simeon safely back on shipboard without the loss of spectacles or dignity."

She would like Simeon back! What wouldn't French give to know her husband was still alive!

The butler announced lunch, and Ben came dashing downstairs, delighted to see Stephen and full of excuses at having lingered in his wife's room. He said Polly was feeling rather poorly, and Stephen was glad to see a look of anxiety cross Deena's face; he rightly judged her thoughts had been diverted from Patagonia to Polly's sofa, and he breathed once more.

What a pleasant luncheon it was, in spite of the lurking dread. Deena was wearing the old blue dress he had recommended to her the night before. It could not be from coquetry—she was above coquetry—but perhaps she had put it on to recall associations; to remind him of the close bonds of friendship that existed between them in those pleasant autumn days that followed Simeon's departure. Stephen was not very learned in the make of women's frocks, but he understood color and could appreciate how that steely-blue made her complexion glow warm as ivory and her hair like copper.

They were pretending to quarrel over a dish of salted almonds; Deena declared that French was getting the lion's share, and finally covered the little silver basket that held them with her hand. On the third finger flashed old Mrs. Ponsonby's diamond in its antiquated silver setting, and below it was her wedding ring, the narrow band that symbolized her bondage to Simeon. For the first time since French had received the cable, its possible significance to him took possession of his mind, and he flushed a dull red and fell into a reverie.

In all probability there was no longer any barrier between him and the woman he loved; nothing to prevent his striving to win her, but the period of her mourning—the respect she owed to the memory of a husband who was the palest shadow of a lover, and not even the ghost of a companion. He wondered whether she had ever guessed his feelings—feelings which he had subdued and held under with all the strength of his nature, partly through fear of forfeiting her friendship and partly because her charm was in the simplicity of her goodness. If love had once been named between them, Deena would have been other than herself.

Her voice roused him. She was excusing herself in order to go to her sister, and leave him and Ben to smoke. He held the door open for her to pass with a profound sense of relief—no suspicion of his awful secret had been betrayed. But oh! the comfort of talking it over with Ben, of sharing the burden with another! They discussed the meager announcement till they had exhausted every probability and found nothing to hope and everything to fear.

"I hope to Heaven he is dead!" cried Ben. "Imagine a man physically weak, like Ponsonby, enduring slow starvation in the damp and chill of the Patagonian seacoast. It will be a positive relief if we hear he fell overboard."

"Anything is better than uncertainty," said Stephen, and the speech must have been from the new point of view, the hope of Deena's freedom, for the next moment he was conscious of a wave of shame.

"I ought to get an answer from Lopez before night," he added, rising to go; "and as soon as I hear I will return and let you know."

Ben followed him to the front door, whispering like a conspirator and glancing furtively up the stairs. There was a childish streak in the boy's nature that gloried in a confidence; the joy of the secret nearly made up for the sorrow of the fact. But secrets and sorrows were soon put out of his head, for a crucial moment had come to the young Minthrops—one we anticipate and are never quite prepared for.

As he ran upstairs, after seeing Stephen off, he met Deena, evidently looking for him.

"Oh, Ben," she said, "Polly is ill, and I have telephoned for——"

But she got no further, for her big brother-in-law turned white as a frightened girl, and when he tried to speak no sound came from his lips.

"Goose!" said Deena, laying an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Shall I get a glass of brandy? Do you suppose no one has ever met with this experience before?"

Ben recovered himself with a fit of irritation, which seems the corollary to being frightened.

"Brandy!" he repeated. "Why in thunder should I want brandy? Really, Deena, for a sensible woman, you are given at times to saying the most foolish things I ever heard."

* * * * *

In the meanwhile, as the afternoon was still early, French was anxious to find some occupation that might distract his thoughts. He decided to visit his aunt, whose conversation was usually startling enough to hold the attention of her hearers in any stress of agitation, and then when he was halfway up her steps repented the intention, on the ground that he needed soothing rather than stimulating; but his retreat was cut off by the good lady coming out of her door and discovering him, and, as she was about to walk round the block for exercise before taking her afternoon drive, she promptly claimed his company for both occasions. The wind blew her dress up to her ankles as she reached the sidewalk, displaying a pair of pointed-toed, high-heeled boots that perforce made walking—even round the block—a torturing task. But Mrs. Star was a brave woman, and walking a matter of conscience, so she tottered along beside her nephew, occasionally laying a hand on his arm when a bit of icy pavement made her footing more than usually uncertain.

"How I hate the late winter in New York!" she exclaimed, when a few minutes later they were seated in her sleigh on their way to the park. "Here we are at the threshold of February, when any self-respecting climate would be making for spring, and we must count on two months more of solid discomfort. Ah, well, this year I do not mean to face it. I have had the yacht put in commission, and she sails next week for the Mediterranean, where I shall overtake her by one of the German boats, and do a little cruising along the African coast. Come with me, Stephen," she said, coaxingly. "Let this silly school-teaching go. You are a rich man—why under the sun do you want to work? If you are holding on to Harmouth on account of that pretty Mrs. Ponsonby, it can't do you much good when she is in New York. Besides," she added, quite as an afterthought, "it is bad morality, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

He was about to turn and rend her for what he considered an unpardonable meddling with his affairs, when he saw her eyes fixed on him with tenderest affection and his anger melted.

"Dear Stevie," she said, "be good-natured and bear an old woman company—you know you are as dear as my own sons."

She used to call him Stevie when he was a lonely little boy, and she made her house his home; when all he knew of family life was supplied by that good-natured, worldly household—the name touched a chord of memory that softened his irritation.

"I wish I could, Aunt Adelaide," he answered, "but I have managed to tie myself to my work in a way you cannot understand. You will have to take Bob as a companion."

Bob was her only unmarried child, wedded only to his clubs and amateur soldiering, and even less available than Stephen for a cruise.

"Bob!" she said, contemptuously. "He never voluntarily went to a foreign country except Cuba, and I don't believe he knows on which side of the Mediterranean Africa lies! I shall find some one who will be glad to go with me—perhaps your charming friend, Mrs. Ponsonby, might go. She looks as if she would be a pleasant traveling companion."

French's heart tightened as he thought of the horror that stood between Deena and pleasure, and was even debating in his mind whether it would not be better to tell his aunt the truth, when conversation was rendered impossible for the moment by the puffing and tooting of a great automobile advancing toward them down the west drive of the park—its wheels slipping in a crazy manner, that made the coachman of Mrs. Star's sleigh give it a wide berth. Just as it got abreast of them, it became perfectly unmanageable—slewed to the left, made a semicircle which turned it round, and, catching the back of the sleigh on its low front, turned the light vehicle over as easily as if it had been made of pasteboard.

Mrs. Star allowed herself a shrill shriek as the sleigh went over and then lay quite still in a heap by the side of the road, with Stephen across her feet. The automobile seemed to have recovered its serenity, for it now stood still like any well-behaved machine, quiet save for its noisy breathing, while the sleigh was being bumped, on its side, far up the road, at the heels of the outraged horses.

French scrambled to his feet and endeavored to help his aunt, who had raised herself to a sitting posture and was looking white and disheveled, while she cast furious glances at the motor and its owner. She took her nephew's hands and attempted to rise, but fell back, declaring she had broken her knee, as it hurt her excruciatingly when she tried to move it.

The owner of the auto now came forward in great contrition to offer help and apologies. He was a physician, he explained, hastening to a case of great urgency, and he had taken his automobile as the quickest means of covering the distance, though he had known it at times to behave badly on slippery and snowy roads.

The admission was a mistake—it put him in the wrong, and Mrs. Star, who distrusted all modern doctors, felt a consuming rage against this one in particular.

"You must have a strange estimate of a physician's duty if you feel justified in risking many lives to save one!" she said, haughtily. "Not that you are much worse than the fire engines and ambulances. We ought to add a petition to the litany for safety against our safeguards, for they kill more than they rescue."

The gentleman bore her sarcasms with becoming humility, and begged to be allowed to take her home, promising that the machine should execute no more "Voyages en zigzag," and she, ashamed of her temper, forced herself to decline, with some graciousness, though she made it very plain that no person on earth could tempt her to get into the automobile.

"At least let him tell you whether your knee is seriously hurt," Stephen whispered, loath to see the medical help departing.

"I'll do nothing of the sort," retorted Mrs. Star. "A nice spectacle you would make of me by the roadside! Besides, I am not going to allow my knee to buy him a new automobile. Thank Heaven, I know how to guard my pocket against the medical profession—I'll not stir from this spot till he takes himself off."

"Don't be so foolish!" urged French. "If your knee is injured it is a very serious thing."

"Well, it isn't seriously injured," she said, perversely. "I have changed my mind, and I mean to have it tied up with witch hazel."

Fortunately her equipage was now seen approaching in the charge of two park policemen, who had stopped the horses about a mile further on, righted the sleigh and now brought it back not much the worse for the misadventure. The coachman and groom were collected from the bushes, and, as they were quite uninjured, Stephen lifted his aunt into the back seat and they turned their faces homeward.

However much the rest of the party may have been inconvenienced, French had certainly attained the object of his solicitude—namely, to have his thoughts distracted from Simeon Ponsonby.

CHAPTER VIII.

The second cable from Lopez arrived soon after dinner; it brought small comfort. Its nineteen words told the story but too conclusively.

Strayed from party while hunting. Weather turned foggy. Search parties persevered for two weeks. Hope abandoned. Expedition homeward bound.

There was no further excuse for concealment; indeed, it was French's plain duty to tell Deena what might be told by the newspapers if he delayed.

It was just nine o'clock, and he walked rapidly to the Minthrops' and rang the bell. Outside an electric cab was waiting, its great lamps casting pathways of light across street and sidewalk. The motorman was inside; an indication that long waiting had driven him to shelter, though the circumstance had no significance to Stephen.

The bell was answered by the butler, who looked portentous and stood resolutely in the doorway.

"Not at 'ome, sir," he said, in response to Stephen's request to see Mrs. Ponsonby.

"Then I must see Mr. Minthrop," French insisted.

The man hesitated and then relaxed his wooden expression.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. French. I did not recognize you, sir. The truth is, we're a bit h'upset h'inside. Mrs. Minthrop is tuk ill, sir—very sudden—and we're expecting the good word every minute. I shall tell Mr. Minthrop you called."

Stephen nodded and turned away—the fates had ordained that he was to carry his secret till the morning. It had been a harassing burden in the daylight hours, but during the night it became maddening; it seemed beyond his resolution to tell Deena that the pleasure trip he had set on foot for her husband's advantage had ended in death.

As early as he thought permissible, the next morning, he presented himself at Ben's door—this time gaining, a cheerful admission—and was shown to the library on the second floor. There he found the young father, radiantly happy, and so self-centered that he had entirely forgotten the misfortune overhanging his sister-in-law.

"Come and see my son," he said, proudly, and in spite of an expression of reluctance on the part of French to intrude into the upper regions of the house, he pushed him ahead of him up the next flight of stairs and knocked softly at the door of a back bedroom.

Deena's voice bade them enter, and French was ushered into a large room fitted out as a nursery, with the newest appliances for baby comfort. There was a bassinette so be-muslined and be-ribboned and be-laced that it looked like a ball dress standing by itself in the middle of the floor; and a bathtub that looked like a hammock; and a weighing machine; and a chart for recording the daily weight; and a large table with a glass top; and a basket containing all the articles for the Lilliputian toilet; while near the fender some doll-like clothes were airing.

Deena was sitting in a low rocking-chair near the fire with her nephew in her arms. She welcomed her visitors with a smile, and turned down a corner of the baby's blanket to display his puckered ugliness to Stephen. She was looking happy, tender, proud, maternally beautiful.

"Hasn't he a beautifully shaped head?" she demanded, passing her hand tenderly over the furry down that served him for hair. "And look at his ears and his hands—was there ever anything so exquisite?"

It was French's first introduction to a young human, and he found it slightly repulsive, but Deena, in her Madonna-like sweetness, made his heart swell.

"He is part of an exquisite picture," he answered.

Ben, who had been for a moment with Polly, now came into the room with his usual noisy bustle, and Deena got up and, surrendering the baby to the nurse, led the way downstairs.

At the library door Stephen paused to whisper to Ben:

"Stay with me while I tell her," in tones of abject fright; but Ben shook his head.

"Look here, old man," he said, in mild remonstrance, "if you had had a baby last night, you wouldn't be casting about for fresh trouble to-day—now, would you?"

Stephen gave him an indignant glance, and, following Deena, he shut the library door. He did it in so pronounced a way that she looked up surprised, and was even more at a loss to account for the gravity of his expression; she wondered whether he had thought her rude yesterday when she had disappeared from the table at lunch and had never returned, but it was not like French to be touchy.

"I left you very unceremoniously yesterday," she began, "but the nurse appeared for a moment at the door, and I did not want to alarm Ben. You were not offended?"

"Believe me, no," French answered, with a sort of shudder; "for the first time in my life I was glad to see you go—your presence was torture to me—I was concealing something from you, Mrs. Ponsonby, and it has got to get itself told."

While he spoke her expression changed rapidly from amazement to alarm, and she got up and came close to him—waiting—but without a word.

"Simeon is lost," he said, hoarsely, hurling the bald fact at her before his courage failed. "I tried to tell you yesterday," he went on, drawing the cables from his pocket, "but I couldn't; it all seemed so vague at first, and I ventured to wait until I got more news."

She was standing before him with her hands clasped and her face deadly pale, but with a calm that frightened him.

"Do you mean lost at sea?" she asked, in a steady voice—toneless but perfectly clear.

He shook his head.

"No—on land. He was hunting—it must have been the very hunt we were talking about—and wandered from his party. A fog came on, and they were unable to find him. Lopez telegraphs that they sent out search parties for a fortnight, but could find no trace."

He longed for a word from her, but none came.

"At last they abandoned hope," he concluded. "The expedition is now on its way home."

She had turned her back upon him, and he waited in misery to hear her sob, to see her shoulders shake with her weeping; but, instead, the whole figure seemed to stiffen, and, wheeling round, she faced him with blazing eyes.

"The cowards!" she cried. "To abandon a man to starvation! What are they made of to do such a barbarous thing!"

"We must not judge them unheard," Stephen ventured. "Their search may have been exhaustive—they may have risked their own lives gladly—and you know," he added, gently, "that beyond a certain time it would have been useless from the standpoint of saving life."

"It was inhuman to sail away and leave him," she went on, beating her hands together in a sort of rage. "How can you defend them! You, who sent him off on this horrible journey—how can you sleep in your bed when you know Simeon in perishing by inches! I should think you would be on your way now—this moment—to search for him! Oh, do something—don't just accept it in this awful way. Haven't you any pity?" Unconsciously she laid her hand on his shoulder, as if she would push him from the room.

Stephen bore her reproaches with a meekness that exasperated her.

"Are there no cables to Magellan?" she asked. "There must be somebody there who for money would do your bidding. Don't waste time," she answered, stamping her foot.

Stephen kept his temper. Perhaps he was shrewd enough to see that it was pity rather than love that gave the fierceness to her mood. It was the frenzy of a tender-hearted woman at hearing of an act of cruelty rather than the agony of one who suffers a personal bereavement.

"Deena," he said, not even knowing he had used her name, "do you really want me to go on this hopeless errand? Think of its utter uselessness—the time that has elapsed, the impossibility of penetrating into such a country in the advancing winter. It is the first of February, and I could not get there before March; it would be already their autumn. By this time he has either reached help or he is beyond it."

At the beginning of his speech Deena's pale face flushed, but as he went on setting forth the obstacles to his going she seemed to harden in her scorn.

"Oh, yes," she sneered. "Let him die! It is cold in Patagonia for a gently nurtured person like Mr. French. Simeon is poor in friends—he only had one besides his wife, and that one is a fair-weather friend. But I'll go—I am not afraid of privation. I'll entreat the Argentine Government for help—I'll make friends with the Indians—I'll——"

"Hush," he said, "you have said enough—I will go."

Having gained her point, she burst into tears.

"I am cruel," she said, "selfishly cruel to you, who have been so good to me—but whom can I turn to except to you? How can we abandon Simeon without raising a finger to save him? Say you forgive me."

He held out his hand in mute acquiescence. Her sneers had stung him to the quick, but her appeal to his manhood for help in her distress moved him deeply.

"Perhaps," she went on, half to herself, "perhaps if I had been a better wife—if I had loved him more, I could bear it better—but it is so pitiful. He has always been alone in life, and now he is dying alone."

Stephen, who was pacing the floor, tried not to listen. He knew she was not thinking of him when she was confessing her shortcomings to her own conscience, but the admission that she felt herself lacking in love to Simeon filled him with a deep joy. He did not dare to linger.

"I am going," he said, gently. "Good-by, Deena. Will you pray God to send you back the man who loves you?"

She stood staring at him dumb with misery, but as the door shut between them a cry of anguish burst from her very soul.

"Come back!" she cried. "Oh, Stephen, come back! I can't bear it! I can't let you go! Don't you know I love you?—and I have sent you off to die!"

She knew that he had gone—that her appeal was to the empty air, and she flung herself on the sofa in a frenzy of sobs. But the cry reached Stephen in the hall, where he stood battling with himself against his yearning for one more look, one more word to carry with him, and at the sound his resolution melted like wax in the flame of his passion. With a bound he was back in the room, on his knees beside her, soothing her with tenderest endearments—pouring out the fullness of his love.

"Must I go, Deena?" he pleaded. "Must I leave you when I know you love me? And for what?—a search for the dead!"

At his words her conscience woke with a stab of shame.

"Yes, go!" she said. "Go quickly. A moment ago I sent you in the name of compassion; now I send you in expiation for this one intolerable glimpse of Heaven."

* * * * *

Stephen, eager to do her bidding, went straight to Mrs. Star's house to take leave of the only person to whom he owed the obligations of family affection, and found that redoubtable lady on a sofa in her dressing room. In answer to his expressions of regret at this intimation of invalidism, she gave an angry groan.

"Oh, yes!" she said. "Our medical friend has succeeded in providing another doctor with as pretty a case of water-on-the-knee—to say nothing of other complications—as he could desire. My only comfort is, he didn't get the charge himself."

"But you have seen a specialist, surely?" exclaimed French, who feared her hatred of physicians might have prevented her calling in proper aid.

"Don't distress yourself," she answered. "McTorture has me fast in his clutches; and for how long do you suppose? Two months! He will promise nothing short of two months, and even then objects to my going abroad, and the yacht ready to start this very week! I am waiting for Bob to come into lunch, to get him to send for the sailing master and break the news to him. He'll be a disappointed man!"

"I will take the yacht off your hands," said Stephen, casually.

"You!" she exclaimed. "Are you running away from or with anybody, that you suddenly annex an ocean steamer? You were prosing only yesterday afternoon about work and duty, as if nothing could separate you from Harmouth. Is the attraction going to bolt with you, Stevie?"

Stephen could have killed her as she lay there, allowing her tongue free play with his most intimate concerns, but the respect due to an old woman, to say nothing of an aunt, restrained his anger, and he answered, coldly:

"If you want to get rid of the yacht for the rest of the year, say so. My friend, Simeon Ponsonby, is lost in the wilderness of Patagonia, and I am organizing a party to search for him. I shall have to resign my work at Harmouth, but I feel responsible for poor Ponsonby's fate; I sent him on the expedition."

"Ah! did you?" she said, laughing wickedly. "Poor Uriah has been disposed of, and now the lady sends you to look for his bones. Don't look too hard, Stevie, you might find he wasn't lost, after all!"

"Stop!" cried French, springing to his feet. "How dare you make a jest of other people's misfortunes? Is there so little decency among your associates that you no longer recognize it when you see it?"

She had the grace to look ashamed.

"Take the yacht, my dear," she said, kindly, "and if the expense is too great for your income, you can draw on me for what you like. Can't you stand a little teasing from your old aunt?"

"I will take the yacht, and pay for it," said French. "As for the teasing, we seem to have different ideas about what is amusing."

"Then forgive me," she pleaded, and there were tears in her eyes, "and be careful of yourself, my dear boy, in this dismal expedition. Take plenty of furs, and beware of the cannibals."

She won a smile from him as he bent over her sofa to kiss her good-by, but she reserved further comments upon his errantry for Bob.

"Quixotic nonsense!" she declared. "Was there ever a man so wise that a woman couldn't make a fool of him?"

CHAPTER IX.

Could there be a crueler irony of fate than to be absolutely convinced of the widowhood of her you love and to be unable, practically, to establish the fact?

Stephen French had expatriated himself, resigned the work he valued, put the seas between himself and Deena, only to be baffled at every turn. For two months he had used his utmost acumen in prosecuting the search without even finding a clew, and when finally he made his great discovery, it was by yielding to the impulse of the moment rather than the suggestions of reason.

From March to May Mrs. Star's great ocean-going yacht had steamed along the southeastern shores of Patagonia. Sometimes within the confines of the Straits, sometimes rounding its headlands into the Atlantic, and dropping anchor wherever the line of coast gave any facility for landing an exploring party, until the hopelessness of the quest was patent to everybody except Stephen.

On his way down he had stopped at Buenos Ayres, where he provided himself with the charts and surveys made by the newly returned expedition, and secured Simeon's personal effects left on the Tintoretto, together with his diary, scientific memoranda and specimens, which had been carefully preserved, and were of rare value, from a botanist's point of view.

French was fortunate enough to induce both Lopez and the captain of the Tintoretto to accompany him as guests, and they proved invaluable allies, especially the captain, whose topographical knowledge and recent experience were always to be relied upon. From him Stephen learned all the particulars of Simeon's disappearance, though the last home letter dispatched by the poor fellow, on the eve of the guanaco hunt, covered the first part of the story. It appeared that Ponsonby had landed with a surveying party from the ship, one morning in January, on the Patagonian side of the Straits, and set out to botanize while his companions worked. He had climbed a steep bank, in order to secure a particular shrub just in flower, when he saw on the plain beyond a party of Indians gathered by the shore of a small, fresh-water lake. Most of them were watering their horses, but half a dozen were grouped round a man lying on the ground, apparently injured. Their sharp eyes quickly marked Simeon filling his vasculum with the coveted specimens, and, waving their hands in friendly greeting, two of them advanced at a gallop. One spoke fairly good Spanish, and explained that the son of their chief had broken his leg by a fall from his horse, and he begged Simeon—whom he conceived, from his occupation of gathering simples, to be a medicine man—to come to their assistance.

Simeon's own Spanish was too poor to undeceive them, but, thinking he might be of some use, he went back with them, and rigged out a set of splints, that made it possible to carry the young man to their encampment, about a mile away. In gratitude for his services, they accompanied him to the ship on his return, mounting him on one of their horses and forming a bodyguard round him. It was then that they proposed the guanaco hunt to the officers of the ship; their own visit to the Straits being simply in pursuit of game.

The morning of the hunt the captain described as unusually warm for that region, even in January, and not particularly clear; there was a haze that was just not a fog. The Indians met them about a mile back from the shore, bringing a dozen extra horses for their guests. The quietest beast was selected for Ponsonby, but its docility was so questionable, and the rider's inexperience so evident, that the captain persuaded him to give up the chase, and content himself with a ride to the encampment to inquire about his patient. The last ever seen of him he was sitting on horseback watching the departing hunt.

Guanacos in large numbers had been seen on the plains to the northwest, whereas the Indian camp lay to the northeast, and Ponsonby's route was widely divergent to that of the hunters. All that was known is that he never reached the encampment; perhaps he mistook the trail, and, having left his compass in his cabin, had no means of ascertaining his direction—or perhaps his horse became unmanageable and bolted, carrying him far inland; at all events, his chance without a compass was poor, for a tremendous rain came on, which lasted for three days, leadening the sky to an even gray, with no mark of setting or rising sun.

At the end of four days the horse he had ridden came into camp riderless; its saddle had been removed, probably by Simeon, to make a pillow at night, and its whole appearance bespoke long travel. For a fortnight the ship's company and the Indians scoured the country seeking him. They sent up rockets at night, and lighted fires on the hilltops by day; they wearied themselves and the tireless Indians, and at last, knowing the limits of human endurance in a case like Ponsonby's, they gave up in despair.

All these incidents formed the main topics of conversation in the long evenings in the saloon of the yacht. In addition to Senor Lopez and the captain of the Tintoretto, Stephen had secured the services of a young physician with a taste for adventure, and his own sailing master was a person of intelligence, so that the little party brought a variety of experience to the councils held on board ship or round the camp fire when their search carried them so far inland that it was impossible to return to the yacht at night. Several times, accompanied by Pecheray guides, they had been gone for ten days at a time, but never found a trace of the lost man. There was the faint possibility that he had been found and cared for by wandering Indians, but what was far more likely was that French might stumble upon the spot where he died. Even in that land of beasts and birds of prey something would be left in evidence.

The daylight hours were now so few that little could be accomplished, and the cold was becoming severe. A violent snowstorm on the fifteenth of May decided French to give up the search and go home. Accordingly, they steamed out of the Straits of Magellan and turned the vessel northward, keeping as near the Patagonian shore as was prudent, in the hope of sighting canoes.

They had been steaming in this direction for about three hours, going slowly and keeping a sharp outlook toward the land, when the captain called French's attention to an opening in the coast line, where the Gallegos River empties into the sea. An impulse—perhaps it might more truly be called an inspiration—induced French to order the yacht brought to anchor in the bay. Although the shore seemed deserted, several canoes filled with Indians immediately put out for the yacht, as was, indeed, their invariable custom. The boats were large, capable of holding six or eight people in the two ends, while in the middle was the inevitable clay hearth, on which smoldered the fire of hemlock. As they approached the yacht, the Indians began begging for rum and tobacco, some by gestures and some in a patois, in which Spanish and Indian words were strangely blended; and French, whose policy was always to secure their good will, invited them on board and ordered the steward to bring spirits and tobacco, and also a plentiful supply of ship biscuit and sweets.

The men were of medium size, and not bad looking, and for the most part dressed in loose-fitting mantles of guanaco skins, stained bright red. In spite of the cold, this one garment was their only protection, and even this they would offer in exchange for rum. Knowing their customs, French was astonished to find the first man who stepped on board wearing the coat of civilization under his mantle, and his astonishment gave way to alarm when he recognized an old checked cutaway of Simeon's, which had done service for many a winter at Harmouth, and was as unmistakable as the features of its lost owner. While Stephen stared—too agitated to find a word of Spanish—-the Indian tossed off half a tumbler of raw whisky at a gulp and, drawing from the pocket of poor Simeon's coat a silver flask, he presented it to the steward to be filled with the same genial fluid. The flask was Stephen's parting gift to Simeon, and marked with his name.

The excitement now became intense, for the Indians declared that the owner of the coat was alive, and the one who was wearing it, and who seemed to exercise some authority over the others, began an explanation in signs. He pointed to a cliff that overhung the stony beach at the mouth of the river, and, lifting his hand high above his head; brought it down with a violent gesture, as if to simulate a fall. He next motioned toward the canoes, talking volubly all the while, though his language was unintelligible to anyone except the captain of the Tintoretto, who picked out a word here and there.

The tribes of the Straits of Magellan and the adjacent coasts vary greatly in their characteristics; some have the impassive bearing we associate with the Indian, and some are imitative, reproducing sounds and gestures with surprising exactness.

It was not difficult to guess that Simeon had fallen over the cliff and been found by the Indians, who are always skirting the shore in their canoes, and the Spanish captain made out that he was now in one of their boats higher up the river. When the Indian was asked whether he would guide them to the place, he hesitated until bribed by rum and provisions, and then he agreed to go in his own canoe and bring Simeon to the yacht, where the exchange was to be effected. Why he hesitated remained a mystery, unless Ponsonby's knowledge of herbs had made him of value to the tribe.

French immediately ordered the various tins and boxes, containing the supply of food promised, to be placed conspicuously on the deck as an earnest of his honesty in the barter, and when a small keg of rum was added, the satisfaction was complete; four or five Indians followed their leader into his canoe and paddled up the river.

They were gone so long—over three hours—that French began to curse his folly in trusting them, and he was about to follow them up in the launch, when he saw their canoe coming round a bend in the stream. At the first glance it seemed filled with Indians only, and it was not until it was actually alongside that he detected a mummy-like form lying in the stern, which he guessed to be Simeon.

Half a dozen sturdy arms made the transfer, by means of a hammock, from the canoe to the yacht, and Simeon, alive but quite unconscious, was laid on the deck. He had probably been subjected by the removal to more pain than in his enfeebled condition he could bear, and it required long and patient exertion on the part of the doctor before he was revived from his syncope.

His condition was pitiable; from an injury to the spine he was a helpless cripple, while the arm which had been broken in his fall had knit in a way to render it perfectly useless. He was fearfully emaciated, probably from the lack of palatable food, and his expression was vacant.

French gave up his own deck cabin, the most commodious in size, and before another hour had passed Simeon was lying in a comfortable bed, clean, warm, devotedly tended, but apparently dying.

For forty-eight hours they kept the yacht within the shelter of the river, fearing the effect of motion on that feeble flame of life, but the warmth and nourishment soon began to tell, and on the third day he recognized French, and tried to murmur some words of gratitude and pleasure.

That night Stephen called the doctor into his own room and shut the door. He wanted to put a very simple question, one which might have been asked anywhere out of Simeon's hearing, and yet the effort seemed almost beyond his powers.

"Can he live?"

The words came in such a hoarse, unnatural voice that the doctor, a sensitive man, feared to deal the blow of truth. This was a very marvel of friendship; like the love of David and Jonathan, it passed the love of women.

The doctor temporized. Mr. Ponsonby had rallied wonderfully; his constitution was much stronger than he had been given to understand; it was rather soon to give a definite opinion, but——

Here Stephen interrupted him.

"Great God, man! Can't you answer a plain question. Yes or no?"

The doctor drew himself up and, to quote his own language, "let him have it straight."

"If he lives to get home it will be a good deal more than I expect of him."

French nodded toward the door, and turned his back.

* * * * *

That night he relieved the doctor's watch by sitting up with his friend, and, having given him his broth at midnight, was almost dozing in his chair when a whisper from Simeon roused him. The sound was so faint, he held his breath to listen.

"Stephen, I want to see Deena."

French's heart began thumping like the screw of his yacht. How he thanked God that he could look his friend in the face as he answered:

"So you shall, old man; just as quickly as steam can carry you to her."

A look of satisfaction came into the tired eyes.

"It will be a race with death," he said, "but perhaps—thank you, Stephen." And he fell asleep.

CHAPTER X.

With Deena the spring moved drearily. Her position was strangely anomalous; she was neither wife nor widow, without the right to be glad or sad—only dumbly wretched. She could not mourn for a husband who might be living, nor could she ignore the fact that he might be dead, and all the while that parting scene with Stephen burned into her conscience like a brand.

She shut herself up with Polly and the baby, and hardly went out of the house while she remained in New York. Love for the child crept deep into her heart and soothed her into patience when all else failed.

In May the house in Harmouth returned to her keeping, the lease having expired, and she left the Sixty-fifth Street household with reluctance to take up her old life. In the great city she had been but a human atom. Her conduct, her unhappiness, her very existence mattered to no one there, except, perhaps, to Ben and Polly, who were as tender and sympathetic as such vigorous people could be; but in Harmouth every creature was interested in Simeon's fate, and watched Deena with a curiosity she found maddening.

She felt herself the main topic of conversation; she never approached two people talking in the street that they didn't break off in guilty confusion, and comments upon her mode of dressing and daily occupations were continually repeated to her in the form of censure. Her own family were especially out of touch, for their assumption that she mourned her husband as Polly would have done made her feel like an impostor. They did not give her much of their company, for their newly found fortune made them even more self-centered than their misfortunes. Dicky was the exception; perhaps because he had started in life hard as nails, and so couldn't grow any harder. At all events, Deena thought she discerned a reluctant affection in his greeting that was infinitely flattering.

Stephen wrote whenever he could catch the Chilian mail boats on their way through the Straits. His letters were those of a man under the strong hand of restraint; admirable letters, that filled her with respect for him and shame at her own craving for "one word more."

On the twenty-fifth of May she had a cable that changed the face of events. It was from Montevideo.

Have found Simeon. Desperately ill. On our way home. S. FRENCH.

The news spread over the town like wildfire. The local paper issued an extra; a thing it had not done since the assassination of Mr. McKinley. As soon as Harmouth knew Mrs. Ponsonby's exact status it became distinctly friendly. People are helpful by instinct, and offers of neighborly assistance poured in from all sides.

Deena left nothing undone that could, by anticipation, add to Simeon's comfort. His room was ready, a nurse engaged, and all the paraphernalia belonging to the care of the sick collected long before the time due for his arrival. She counted upon seeing him four weeks from the date of the cable. The regular trip of the mail boats between Rio and New York is twenty days; from Montevideo two days more; to that must be added another day to reach Boston, and she was warned that a yacht would go more slowly than a large steamer; she therefore concluded the third week in June would bring them.

The lot of women is to wait, and they do it under a pressure of nervous strain that makes it slow torture. No turn of fortune could have surprised Deena at this crisis, for her imagination had pictured every possibility.

When a summer storm blackened the sky she saw the yacht tempest-tossed and sinking, driven before a tropical cyclone; when the sun shone, she fancied it sailing gayly into port with Simeon restored to health, expecting to find her as he left her—the willing slave, the careful housewife—and she shivered and went pale at the thought; and then in a revulsion of feeling she saw him dying, and she was ready to cast herself at his feet, and tell him all—how she had tried to do right, how she had struggled against her love for Stephen. Perhaps he would have mercy upon her and let her go away, all by herself, to wrestle with her heart.

She couldn't eat; she couldn't sleep. She grew so wan and thin she was like a ghost of her old self.

Her mother said:

"My dear, you must stop fretting. I am sure, under the care of that clever young doctor Mr. French took down, and with the comforts of the yacht, your husband will be quite himself by the time he gets home."

And her father added:

"You must not be so impatient, Deena; it is mighty nasty sailing through West Indian waters, and a boat of that size doesn't carry enough fuel for a prolonged voyage; they will have to stop for coal somewhere on their way up."

She was growing irritable under her dread. Like Elisha, she longed to silence them with the answer:

"I know it; hold ye your peace."

The middle of June had passed, the fourth week of the voyage had begun, and now any day, any hour, might bring news. Deena's anxiety had made such inroads into her health that her father took alarm and called in her old friend Dr. Hassan, and he, wise man, gave her a sedative and ordered her to bed, though the afternoon was still young.

It was the first long sleep she had had for weeks, and the refreshment came at the time of her direst need, for at daybreak the summons roused her. She waked with a beating heart; wheels stopped in the street, her gate clicked, there were footsteps coming up her path—bold, hurried steps; they reached the veranda—the bell pealed.

She sprang from her bed, huddling her dressing gown round her as she ran, and, slipping back the heavy, old-fashioned bolts of the front door, she stood face to face with Stephen.

If she were pale, he was paler; his blood seemed turned to ice that summer morning.

"The yacht is at Wolfshead," he said. "How soon can you be ready? We must go by rail—I have a special waiting for you."

A glow from the first blush of day caught her as she stood in the frame of the doorway. She was like a mediaeval saint, with her hair wound in a crown about her head, her blue gown falling in stately fold, and her bare feet showing under the hem of her nightgown. In spite of her seeming calm, her eyes blazed with excitement.

To French she seemed something holy and apart—as if those bare feet rested on a crescent, and the shadows of the old hall were floating clouds. He had schooled himself during his hurried journey, in order to meet her without emotion, but she was her own protection; to have touched her would have seemed sacrilege. Her lips tried to frame the question that consumed her with its terrors.

"Simeon——" she began, but her voice failed.

Stephen's haggard eyes softened.

"He is dying," he said. "But there is time—perhaps to-day—perhaps to-morrow. His force of will has kept him alive to see you—he has cared more than you knew."

She gave a little sob, and turned toward the staircase. Halfway up she stopped.

"I forgot to ask you to come in," she said, "or whether you want anything I can get you? But it doesn't matter, does it? All that matters is to do Simeon's bidding. I shall be very quick."

In an incredibly short time she was back, fully dressed, and carrying a bag, into which she had thrust what was indispensable to her comfort for another day. She waked the servant, left a message for her father, and then she and Stephen went out into the street, so gay with early sunlight and twittering birds, so bare of human traffic. At first a strange shyness kept her dumb; she longed to ask a thousand things, but the questions that rose to her lips seemed susceptible of misunderstanding, and Stephen's aloofness frightened her. Did he think, she wondered, that she could forget her duty to Simeon at such a moment, that he surrounded himself with this impenetrable reserve? And all the time he was regarding her with a passionate reverence that shamed him into silence.

At the railway station their train was waiting—the locomotive hissing its impatience; they got into the car, for there was but one, and in a moment were flying seaward. A man—the steward of the yacht—was busy at the far end of the car with a cooking apparatus, and the aroma of coffee came intoxicatingly to her nostrils. She remembered she had eaten nothing since her early dinner the day before, and she was exhausted with excitement, and then she despised herself for thinking of her physical needs when Simeon lay dying. It was fortunate that French had taken a saner view of the situation, for the coffee was just what was needed to restore her equipoise.

She began to understand the delicacy of her companion's conduct, and the simplicity of the whole situation when stripped of morbidness. The only thing that behooved her was to soothe her husband's last hours on earth—to give out the tenderness of a pitying heart. As her common sense asserted itself she began plying Stephen with the questions that had seemed so impossible half an hour before—would Simeon know her—could he bear conversation—was he changed in appearance—had he suffered beyond relief? She demanded the whole story of his rescue and of the voyage home. She was gentle, womanly, infinitely sweet. By the time they reached their destination all constraint was gone; they were two comrades absorbed in a common interest, for Simeon occupied their every thought.

There was a narrow pier at Wolfshead, sheltered by a point of rocky shore that made a landing for small boats in good weather, and there the steam launch was waiting with its two trim sailors and its gaudy flag. The yacht was anchored about a mile from shore—her graceful outlines clearly defined against the ocean's blue. If the purity of her white paint had suffered in the long voyage it was not apparent—red and white awnings were stretched over the deck. All looked hospitably gay. Once more Deena shrank into herself, the brilliant scene mocked the tragedy within.

All too quickly they crossed the intervening water; they were on the deck—in the saloon. She was trembling so she could hardly stand, and Stephen put her into a comfortable chair and left her, while he made her coming known. She hardly glanced at the luxurious fittings of the charming room; her eyes were fixed on the door, dreading, yet impatient, for the message.

A small, sensitive-looking man came toward her and introduced himself.

"I am Dr. Miles," he said, "Mr. Ponsonby's physician, and, if you will allow me, I will take you to him now. There is no question of saving his strength, Mrs. Ponsonby. We have been nursing what is left to him for days, in order that he could lavish it in this interview with you. Don't try to curb him; let him have his say."

She followed him to a deck cabin almost under the bridge, and stood for a moment at the threshold, to make sure of her composure. There was a narrow brass bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and close to the bed a wicker chair, with silk cushions, was drawn up, as if in expectation of a guest. The head of the bed was toward her, so that she couldn't see Simeon's face, but he heard the rustle of skirts, and called her name, and she made a step forward and sank on her knees beside him.

"Oh, Simeon," she gasped, "how you have suffered! I am so sorry!"

He moved his hand feebly and patted her shoulder, and she, in a passion of pity, carried it to her lips. For the first time she ventured to look at him. Was this Simeon! She would have passed him in a hospital ward as an utter stranger, so completely was he changed. He had discarded his spectacles, and his eyes were dull and faded; pain had robbed them of that expression of concentrated wisdom she knew so well. He wore a short, curling beard and mustache, and his clothing, supplied from Stephen's wardrobe, was luxurious; it was silk, of a faint color between blue and gray, and the handkerchief, protruding from the pocket, was delicately fine. Extreme neatness was characteristic of Simeon, but he disliked anything florid in dress or appearance, anything opposed to the austere simplicity that marked his manner of living. She wondered whether such things mattered to him now.

He noticed her start of surprise as her eyes met his, and fancied she was shocked by the ravages of illness, for he said, with a touch of his old irritation:

"Didn't they tell you I was dying? Are you afraid to be left alone with me? You used to be a courageous person, Deena."

The querulousness with which he began the sentence melted into a rallying smile.

"Oh, no," she said, "I am not afraid. I am too sorry to be frightened."

"There is a bell, in case you want to summon the doctor," he continued, "but I should rather talk to you alone. I have been very homesick for you, and for the old house—sometimes the longing has been most acute—and then the anxiety of leaving you poorly provided for has been part of my distress. If I could have lived a few years more this would have been obviated, and possibly, even now, my book will add something to your income." He made a visible effort to speak clearly. "Now, in regard to your future support; I have a life insurance of ten thousand dollars, and securities to about the same amount—and then, of course, the house. This is all I have been able to save, though I have cut our living down to bare necessities. You have been of great assistance to me, Deena—without you life would have had little flavor, but sometimes I fear that in the desire to provide for your future I was not considerate enough of your present. I ought to have been more mindful that young people need pleasure. You will have to forgive that and many other mistakes." He looked at her almost wistfully.

Deena's tears came, dripping plentifully over her clasped hands.

"It is I who should ask forgiveness," she said, humbly, remembering how often she had scorned his economies. "The money is more than I shall need—don't think of it again, Simeon. Isn't there anything you want to tell me about your work—your book?"

His face lit up eagerly—the topic was congenial.

"My papers are safe," he said. "All the initial work of classification and description that I did on the Tintoretto is in French's keeping, and he and Sinclair—the man who has my place—are going to edit the book. We have had a great deal of talk about it on the way up, whenever I had a fairly quiet day. It is idle to try to put into words what I owe French."

"And he feels nothing but self-reproach for having urged you to go," said Deena, faintly. "Not that anyone could have foreseen the miserable outcome."

"It isn't miserable!" Simeon answered, almost fiercely. "In many respects it is all that I hoped. I have made a name for myself—there will not be a scientific library in the world without my book, when once it is issued. People have died for lesser achievements than that." And then he added, more gently: "Not that it could be considered as an achievement without French's aid."

His mind could not detach itself from its debt of gratitude, for he suddenly broke out in passionate eulogy.

"He has sacrificed everything to me—his ambitions—his time—his comfort—his money, though that is the last thing he would begrudge, but you have no idea what it costs to run one of those large yachts! It must have made an inroad even in his large fortune. He has been a friend indeed!"

Deena turned away her face; it was hard for her to praise Stephen, although her heart echoed her husband's words.

"He has high ideals in friendship as in everything else," she answered, "but you must remember, Simeon, that the thought of your sufferings agonized us at home. Who could have abandoned you to such a fate? It makes me sick to think of it!"

A sort of shiver passed over him, while he said, simply:

"It was all in the day's work. French ran the same risks, only with better luck." Presently he added:

"I feel tired, Deena—and a little oppressed. Perhaps you had better ring the bell—but stay. Will you kiss me before you ring?"

She kissed him with a pity that wrung her heart, and he sighed contentedly and shut his eyes. He only spoke once more, just as the doctor came to his bedside.

"I should have been glad to see the old house before I die, but it is just as well as it is."

He was dying all the afternoon, peacefully and gently, and at sunset the end came.

CHAPTER XI.

Master Richard Shelton sat at the foot of his sister's table dispensing its hospitalities chiefly to himself. Through some law unknown to science, all dishes seemed to gravitate toward the main center of Dicky's trencher, thereby leaving the rest of the table comparatively bare.

For eighteen months Master Shelton had given Mrs. Ponsonby the advantage of his company; not so much through volition—albeit, he was well enough pleased with his quarters—as through submission to paternal authority.

Conventional ideas are apt to wilt under the blight of poverty, and to revive under the fuller harvesting of this world's goods, and Mr. Shelton, Sr., who had, in the days of his leanness, let Polly run wild with all the college boys of Harmouth, became suddenly particular, as his bank account fattened, in regard to the niceties of conduct in his daughters. His scruples even embraced Deena; he said she was too young a widow to live alone, and a blank sight too handsome, and that either she must return to the protection of his roof or else receive her brother under her own. With the docility of the intelligent, she accepted his fiat, but chose the evil represented by a unit rather than by the sum total of family companionship.