Everybody tried to produce general conversation, but could extract only polite monosyllables from the twins. Questions addressed directly to them were briefly answered by "yes" or "no," or "I don't know," or, more often, by a winning smile which included them all.

Had it not been for Madame Francesca, gallantly assisted by the Colonel, the abnormal silence of the younger guests might have reacted unfavourably upon the entertainment, for Isabel was as quiet as she usually was, in the presence of her aunt and cousin, Allison became unable to think of topics of general interest, and Rose's efforts to talk pleasantly while her heart was aching were no more successful than such efforts usually are.

But Madame Francesca, putting aside the burden of her seventy years, laughed and talked and told stories with all the zest of a girl. Inspired by her shining example, the Colonel dragged forth a few musty old anecdotes and offered them for inspection. They were new to the younger generation, and Madame affected to find them new also.

Rose wondered at her, as often, envying her the gift of detachment. The fear that had come upon Rose at midnight was with her still, haunting her, waking or sleeping, like some evil thing. Proudly she said to herself that she would seek no man, though her heart should break for love of him; that though her soul writhed in anguish, neither he nor the woman who took him from her should ever even suspect she cared.

She forced herself to meet Allison's eyes with a smile, to answer his questions, and to put in a word, now and then, when Madame or the Colonel paused. Yet, with every sense at its keenest, she noted Isabel's downcast eyes, the self-conscious air with which Allison spoke to her, and the exaggerated consideration of Juliet which he instinctively adopted as a shield. She saw, too, that Isabel was secretly annoyed whenever Allison spoke to Juliet, and easily translated the encouraging air with which Isabel met Romeo's admiring glances. Once, when he happened to turn quickly enough to see, a shadow crossed Allison's face, and he bit his lips.

"How civilised the world has become," Madame was saying, lightly. "The mere breaking of bread together precludes all open hostility. Bitter enemies may meet calmly at the dinner table of a mutual friend, and I understand that, in the higher circles in which we do not care to move, a man may escort his divorced wife out to dinner, and, without bitterness, congratulate her upon her approaching marriage."

"I've often thought," returned the Colonel, more seriously, "that the modern marriage service should be changed to read 'until death or divorce do us part.' It's highly inconsistent as it stands."

"'Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,'" she quoted. "Inconsistency goes as far toward making life attractive as its pleasures do toward spoiling it."

"What do you call pleasure?" queried Allison.

"The unsought joy. If you go out to hunt for it, you don't often get it. When you do, you've earned it and are entitled to it. True pleasure is a free gift of the gods, like a sense of humour."

By some oblique and unsuspected way, the words brought a certain comfort to Rose. Without bitterness, she remembered that Allison had once said: "In any true mating, they both know." Over and over again she said to herself, stubbornly: "I will have nothing that is not true—nothing that is not true."

It was a wise hostess who discovered the fact that changing rooms may change moods; that many a successful dinner has an aftermath in the drawing-room as cold and dismal as a party call. Madame Francesca had once characterised the hour after dinner as "the stick of a sky-rocket, which never fails to return and bring disillusion with it." Hence she postponed it as long as she could, but the Colonel himself gave the signal by moving back his chair.

An awkward pause followed, which lasted until Rose went to the piano of her own accord and began to play. At length she drifted into the running chords of a familiar accompaniment and Allison took his violin and joined in. As he stood by Rose, the mere fact of his nearness brought her a strange peace. Had she looked up, she would have seen that though he stood so near her, he had eyes only for Isabel and was playing to her alone.

Isabel did not seem to care. She sat with her hands folded idly in her lap, occasionally glancing at the twins who sat together on a sofa across the room. Madame Bernard and the Colonel had gone out on the balcony that opened off of the library.

The night was cool, yet had in it the softness of May. Every wandering wind brought a subtle, exquisite fragrance from orchards blooming afar. High in the heavens swung the pale gold moon of Spring.

"What a night," said Madame, almost in a whisper. "It seems almost as if there never had been another Spring."

"And as if there never would be another."

"That may be true, for one or both of us," she replied, with unwonted sadness.

"My work is done," sighed the Colonel. "I have only to wait now."

"Sometimes I think that all of Life is waiting," she went on, with a little catch in her voice, "and yet we never know what we were waiting for, unless—when all is done—"

A warm, friendly hand closed over hers. "Do not question too much, dear friend, for the God who ordained the beginning can safely be trusted with the end, as well as with all that lies between. Do you know," he continued, in a different tone, "a night like this always makes me think of those wonderful lines:

"'The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand And the stars in her hair were seven.'"

Francesca's eyes filled and the stars swam before her, for she remembered the three white lilies the Colonel had put into the still hands of his boy's mother, just before the casket was closed. "I wonder," she breathed, "if—they—know."

"I wonder, too," he said.

The strains of the violin floated out upon the scented night, vibrant with love and longing, with passion and pain. Something had come into the music that was never there before, but only Rose knew it.

"Richard," said Francesca, suddenly, "if you should go first, and it should be as we hope and pray it may be—if people know each other there, and can speak and be understood, will you tell him that I am keeping the faith; that I have only been waiting since we parted?"

"Yes. And if it should be the other way, will you tell her that I, too, am waiting and keeping the faith, and that I have done well with our boy?"

"I will," she promised.

The last chord of violin and piano died into silence. Colonel Kent bent down and lifted Madame's hand to his lips, then they went in together.



XII

AN ENCHANTED HOUR

The days dragged on so wearily that, to Rose, the hours seemed unending. Allison came to the house frequently, but seldom spoke of his music; for more than a week, he did not ask her to play at all. On the rare occasions when he brought his violin with him, the old harmony seemed entirely gone. The pianist's fingers often stumbled over the keys even though Allison played with new authority and that magical power that goes by the name of "inspiration," for want of a better word.

Once she made a mistake, changing a full chord into a dissonance so harsh and nerve-racking that Allison shuddered, then frowned. When they had finished, he turned to her, saying, kindly: "You're tired, Rose. I've been a selfish brute and let you work too hard."

Quick denial was on her lips, but she stopped in time and followed his lead gracefully. "Yes, and my head aches, too. If all of you will excuse me, I'll go up and rest for a little while."

Evening after evening, she made the same excuse, longing for her own room, with a locked and bolted door between her and the outer world. Lonely and miserable though she was, she had at least the sense of shelter. Pride, too, sustained her, for, looking back to the night they met, months ago, she could remember no word nor act, or even a look of hers that had been out of keeping.

Over and over again she insisted to herself, stubbornly: "I will have nothing that is not true,—nothing that is not true." In the midnight silences, when she lay wide awake, though all the rest of the world slept, the words chimed in with her heart-beats: "Nothing that is not true—nothing—that is—not true."

Madame Francesca, loving Rose dearly, became sorely troubled and perplexed. She could not fail to see and understand, and, at times, feared that Allison and Isabel must see and understand also. She watched Rose faithfully and shielded her at every possible point. When Isabel inquired why Rose was always tired in the evening, Madame explained that she had been working too hard and that she had made her promise to rest.

Rose spent more time than usual at the piano but she neglected her own work in favour of Allison's accompaniments. When she was alone, she could play them creditably, even without the notes, but if, by any chance, he stood beside her, waiting until the prelude was finished, she faltered at the first sound of the violin.

At last she gave it up and kept more and more to her own room. Madame meditated upon the advisability of sending Isabel away, providing it could be done gracefully, or even taking her on some brief journey, thus leaving Rose in full possession of the house.

Yet, in her heart, she knew that it would be only a subterfuge; that it was better to meet the issues of Life squarely than to attempt to hide from them, since inevitably all must be met. She could not bear to see Rose hurt, nor could she endure easily the spectacle of her beloved foster son upon the verge of a lifelong mistake. Several times she thought of talking to Colonel Kent, and, more rarely, of speaking to Allison himself, but she had learned to apply to speech the old maxim referring to letter-writing: "When in doubt, don't."

It happened that Allison came late one afternoon, when Isabel had gone to town in search of new finery and Rose was in her own room. Madame had just risen from her afternoon nap, and, after he had waited a few moments, she came down.

"Where's Isabel?" he asked, as he greeted her.

"Shopping," smiled Madame.

"I know, but I thought she'd be at home by this time. She told me she was coming out on the earlier train."

"She may have met someone and gone to the matinee. It's Wednesday."

"She didn't need to do that. I'll take her whenever she wants to go and she knows it."

"I didn't say she had gone—I only said she might have gone. She may be waiting for the trimming of a hat to be changed, or for an appointment with tailor or dressmaker or manicure, or any one of a thousand other things. When you see her, she can doubtless give a clear account of herself."

"Did Rose go with her?" he asked, after a brief pause.

"No, she's asleep," sighed Madame. "Allison, I'm worried about Rose and have been for some time. She isn't well."

"I thought something was wrong," he replied, without interest. "She can't seem to play even the simplest accompaniment any more, and she used to do wonders, even with heavy work."

"I think," ventured Madame, cautiously, "that she needs to get out more. If someone would take her for a walk or a drive every day, it would do her good."

"Probably," assented Allison, with a faraway look in his eyes. "If you want to borrow our horses at any time, Aunt Francesca, when yours are not available, I hope you'll feel free to telephone for them. They're almost eating their heads off and the exercise would do them good."

"Thank you," she answered, shortly. Allison noted the veiled sharpness of her tone and wondered why anyone should take even slight offence at the friendly offer of a coach and pair.

"It must be nearly time for the next train," he resumed. "Is there anyone at the station to meet Isabel?"

"Nobody but the coachman and the carriage," returned Madame, dryly. "I'm not in the habit of being asked whether or not I have made proper provision for my guests."

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Francesca. I would have known, of course, if I had stopped to think."

"How is your father?" she put in, abruptly.

"All right, I guess. He's making a garden and the whole front yard is torn up as though sewer pipes were about to be put in."

Madame's heart softened with pity, for she knew that only loneliness would have set the Colonel to gardening. "I must go over and see it," she said, in a different tone. "My valuable advice hasn't been asked, but I think I could help a little."

"Undoubtedly. Your own garden is one of the loveliest I have ever seen. Isn't that the train?"

"I think so. If Isabel comes, I believe I'll leave you to entertain her while I drive over to inspect the new garden."

She was oppressed, as never before, by the necessity of speech, and, of all those around her, Colonel Kent was the only one to whom it would be possible for her to say a word. She did not stop to consider what she could accomplish by it, for in her heart, she knew that she was helpless—also that a great deal of the trouble in the world has not been caused by silence.

Allison drummed on the arm of his chair until he heard the rumble of wheels, then went to the window. "It's Isabel," he announced, joyously. "I'll go down and help her out—she may have parcels."

Presently they came in together, laughing. Isabel's face was flushed and Allison was heavily laden with packages, both small and large. "I feel like Santa Claus," he cried, gaily, to Madame, as she passed them on the way out.

She smiled, but did not take the trouble to speak. "Colonel Kent's," she called to the driver, as she closed the carriage door with a resounding bang, "and please hurry."

The Colonel was on the veranda when she arrived, superintending the gardening operations from there. He greeted her with surprise, for it was not her way to drive over there alone. "I am deeply honoured," he said, as he assisted her up the steps. "May I order tea?"

"No, thank you," she answered, somewhat primly. It was evident that she was ill at ease. "I understood from Allison that you were doing all this yourself. Instead, I find you sitting on the veranda like a landed proprietor, in command of an army of slaves."

"Two Irishmen don't make an army," he laughed, "though I'll admit that, if angry, they would make a formidable force. I helped to dig for a while this morning, but it didn't seem to agree with me, so I quit. My work seems to be done," he continued, with a sigh.

"No, it isn't," she returned, sharply. "There's work to be done, but whether you or I or both together can do it, is extremely doubtful."

"What do you mean, Francesca?"

Madame leaned toward him confidentially. "Richard," she said, in a low tone, "has it ever occurred to you that Allison might marry?"

A shadow crossed his face, then vanished in a smile. "Yes. Why?"

"Have you ever seen a woman you would be willing for him to marry?"

"Only one."

"And she—?"

"Rose," said the Colonel, softly. "Your Rose."

"I've felt that way, too," whispered Madame. There was silence for the space of a heart-beat, then she cried out sharply: "But it isn't Rose— it's Isabel!"

"What?" he cried, startled for once out of his usual calm. "That child?"

"'That child' is past twenty, and he is only ten years older. There was fifteen years' difference between you and—" Madame forebore to speak the name of the dead and beloved wife.

Colonel Kent turned his dim blue eyes toward the hills. Behind them the sun was setting, and he could guess that the gold of the Spring afternoon was scattered like star dust over the little sunken grave. He left Madame and went to the end of the veranda, where he stood for a few moments, facing the West. Then he came back.

"Francesca," he said, slowly, "you and I are on the Western slope and have been for a long time. The Valley of the Shadow lies at the foot of the hill and the descent is almost made. But the boy is young, and most of the journey lies before him. You chose for yourself, and so did I. Shall we not grant him the same right?"

"Yes, but Rose—"

"Rose," interrupted the Colonel, "is too good for any man—even my own son, though, as I said before, she is the only woman I would willingly see him marry. You stand almost in his mother's place to him, but neither you nor I can shield him now. We must try to remember that his life is his—to make or mar."

"I know," she sighed, "I've thought it all out."

"Besides," he went on, "what could we do? Separation wouldn't last long, if he wants her, and talking would only alienate him from us. Perhaps you could bear it, but I—I couldn't."

"Nor I," she returned, quickly. "When we come to the sundown road, we need all the love we have managed to take with us from the summit of the hill. I hadn't meant to say anything to anyone," she went on, in a changed tone, "but my heart was full, and you are—"

"Your best friend, Francesca, as you are mine. It seems to take a lifetime for us to learn that wisdom consists largely in a graceful acceptance of things that do not immediately concern us."

"How like you," she responded, with a touch of her old manner. "I ask for comfort and you give me an epigram."

"Many people find satisfaction in epigrams," he reminded her. "Sometimes a snap-shot is better than an oil painting."

"Or a geometrical design, or even a map," she continued, catching his mood. The talk drifted to happier themes and Madame was quite herself again at dusk, when she rose to go.

On the way back, she passed Allison, returning home to dinner by a well- worn path, but he was thinking of something else and did not see her at all.

The lilac-scented midnight was starred here and there with white blooms when May went out and June came in. Drifts of "bridal wreath" were banked against the side of the house and a sweet syringa breathed out a faint perfume toward the hedge of lilacs beyond. Blown petals of pink and white died on the young grass beneath Madame's wild crab-apple tree, transplanted from a distant woodland long ago to glorify her garden.

The hour was one of enchantment, yet to Rose, leaning out into the moonless night, the beauty of it brought only pain. She wondered, dully, if she should ever find surcease; if somewhere, on the thorny path ahead, there might not be some place where she could lay the burden of her heartache down. Her pride, that had so long sustained her, was beginning to fail her now. It no longer seemed more vital than life itself that Allison should not know.

She had the hurt woman's longing for escape, but could think of no excuse for flight. She knew Aunt Francesca would manage it, in some way, should she ask, and that she would be annoyed by no troublesome questions, yet loyalty held her fast, for she knew how lonely the little old lady would be without her.

Day by day, the tension increased almost to the breaking point. June filled the garden with rosebuds, but their pale namesake in the big white house took no heed of them. She no longer concerned herself about her gowns, but wore white almost constantly, that her pallor might not show.

The roses broke from their green sheaths, then bloomed, opening their golden hearts to every wandering bee. The house was full of roses. Aunt Francesca wore them even on her morning gowns and Isabel made wreaths of red roses to twine in her dark hair. Every breeze brought fragrance to the open windows and scattered it through the house.

Madame's heart ached for Rose, but still she said no word, though it seemed to her that the blindness of the others could not last much longer. She could not take Rose away unless she took Isabel also, and, should she do that, things would soon be just as they were now.

As Rose faded, Isabel blossomed into the full flower of her youth. Her high, bird-like laugh echoed constantly through the house and garden, whether anyone was with her or not. With sinking heart, Rose envied her even a tithe of her abundant joy.

As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their petals. Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant both death and resurrection. Far down in the garden, where the sunken lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly across the shining surface.

Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the June moon came to its full. Isabel, too, was in white, but with a difference, for as surely as the older woman's white was mourning, her silver spangles were donned for joy. At the table, Madame had done most of the talking, for Isabel's conversational gifts were limited, at best, and Rose was weary beyond all words.

After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords. Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room. "Nothing that is not true," said Rose to herself, steadily; "nothing that is not true."

Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind. To-morrow she would tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go away somewhere, anywhere, alone. Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day after, as soon as she had seen him again. She wanted one last look to take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her soul alone.



Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain. The notes thrilled with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out into the night.



A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the balm of scent and sound. Upstairs, behind the shelter of the swaying curtain, a shining figure drew back into the shadow. Smiling, and with an agreeable sense of adventure, Isabel tiptoed down the back stairs, and entered the garden, unheard, by a side door.

With assumed carelessness, yet furtively watching, she made the circuit of the lily-pool, humming to herself. A quick leap and a light foot on the grass startled her for an instant, then she laughed, for it was only Mr. Boffin, playing with his own dancing shadow.



The sound of the piano had become very faint, though the windows were open and the wind was in the right direction. Isabel stopped at another bush, picked a few full-blown white roses, and sat down on a garden bench to remove the thorns.

"I wonder where he can be," she said to herself. "Surely he can't have gone home again." She listened, but there was no sound save the distant piano, and the abrupt, playful purr of Mr. Boffin, as he pounced upon a fallen white rose.

Isabel put the flowers in her hair, consciously missing the mirror in which she was wont to observe the effect. "He must have gone in while I was coming down," she thought, "but I don't see why he shouldn't have gone straight in when he first came."

She decided to wait until he came to look for her, then as swiftly changed her mind. Rose was still playing.



Isabel hummed the melody to herself, not noting that she was off the key, and started slowly toward the house, by another path.

Allison was standing in the shadow of a maple, listening to the music and drawing in deep breaths of the rose-scented air. The moon flooded the garden with enchantment, and a shaft of silver light, striking the sundial, made a shadow that was hours wrong. He smiled as he saw it, amiably crediting the moon with an accidental error, rather than a purposeful lie.



Deeper and more vibrant, the woman within sent the cry of her heart into the night, where the only one who could answer it stood watching the shadow of the moon on the sun-dial and the spangled cobwebs on the grass. He picked a rose, put it into his button-hole, and turned toward the house.

A hushed sound, as of rustling silk, made him pause, then, at the head of the path, where another joined it, Isabel appeared, with white roses in her hair and the moon shining full upon her face. The spangles on her gown caught the light and broke it into a thousand tiny rainbows, surrounding her with faint iridescence.

The old, immortal hunger surged into his veins, the world-old joy made his senses reel. He steadied himself for a moment, then went to her, with his arms outstretched in pleading.

"Oh, Silver Girl," he whispered, huskily. "My Silver Girl! Tell me you'll shine for me always!"



The last chord ceased, full of yearning that was almost prayer. Then Isabel, cold as marble and passionless as snow, lifted her face for his betrothal kiss.



XIII

WHITE GLOVES

With shyness that did not wholly conceal her youthful pride, Isabel told Madame, a few days later. The little old lady managed to smile and to kiss Isabel's soft cheek, murmuring the conventional hope for her happiness. Inwardly, she was far from calm, though deeply thankful that Rose did not happen to be in the room.

"You must make him very happy, dear," she said.

"I guess we'll have a good time," returned Isabel, smothering a yawn. "It will be lots of fun to go all over the country and see all the big cities."

"I hope he will be successful," Madame continued. "He must be," she added, fervently.

"I suppose we shall be entertained a great deal," remarked Isabel. "He has written to Mamma, but she hasn't had time to answer yet."

"I can vouch for my foster son," Madame replied.

"It isn't necessary," the girl went on, "and I told him so. Mamma never cares what I do, and she'll be glad to get me off her hands. Would you mind if I were married here?"

Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity. "Indeed," she answered, warmly, "you shall have the prettiest wedding I can give you. Your mother will come, won't she?"

"Not if it would interfere with her lecture engagements. She's going to lecture all next season on 'The Slavery of Marriage.' She says the wedding ring is a sign of bondage, dating back to the old days when a woman was her husband's property."

Madame Francesca's blue eyes filled with a sudden mist. Slowly she turned on her finger the worn band of gold that her gallant Captain had placed there ere he went to war. It carried still a deep remembrance too holy for speech. "Property," repeated the old lady, in a whisper. "Ah, but how dear it is to be owned!"

"I don't mind wearing it," said Isabel, with a patronising air, "but I want it as narrow as possible, so it won't interfere with my other rings, and, of course, I can take it off when I like."

"Of course, but I would be glad to have you so happily married, my dear, that you wouldn't want to take it off—ever."

"I'll have to ask Mamma to send me some money for clothes," the girl went on, half to herself.

"Don't bother her with it," suggested the other, kindly. "Let me do it. Rose and I will enjoy making pretty things for a bride."

"I'm afraid Cousin Rose wouldn't enjoy it," Isabel replied, with an unpleasant laugh. "Do you know," she added, confidentially, "I've always thought Cousin Rose liked Allison—well, a good deal."

"She does," returned Madame, meeting the girl's eyes clearly, "and so do I. When you're older, Isabel, you'll learn to distinguish between a mere friendly interest and the grand passion."

"She's too old, I know," Isabel continued, with the brutality of confident youth, "but sometimes older women do fall in love with young men."

"Why shouldn't they?" queried Madame, lightly, "as long as older men choose to fall in love with young women? As far as that goes, it would be no worse for Allison to marry Rose than it is for him to marry you."

"But," objected Isabel, "when he is sixty, she will be seventy, and he wouldn't care for her."

"And," returned Madame, rather sharply, "when he is forty, you will be only thirty and you may not care for him. There are always two sides to everything," she added, after a pause, "and when we get so civilised that all women may be self-supporting if they choose, we may see a little advice to husbands on the way of keeping a wife's love, instead of the flood of nonsense that disfigures the periodicals now."

"They all say that woman makes the home," Isabel suggested, idly.

"But not alone. No woman can make a home alone. It takes two pairs of hands to make a home—one strong and the other tender, and two true hearts."

"I hope it won't take too long to make my clothes," answered Isabel, irrelevantly. "He says I must be ready by September."

"Then we must begin immediately. Write out everything you think of, and afterward we'll go over the list together. Come into the library and begin now. There's no time like the present."

"Do you think," Isabel inquired as she seated herself at the library table, "that I will have many presents?"

"Probably," answered Madame, briefly. "I'll come back when you've finished your list."

She went up-stairs and knocked gently at the door of Rose's room, feeling very much as she did the day she went to Colonel Kent to tell him that the little mother of his new-born son was dead. Rose herself opened the door, somewhat surprised.

Madame went in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment, at a loss for words.

"Has it come?" asked Rose, in a low voice.

"Yes. Oh, Rose, my dear Rose!"

She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch. Every hint of colour faded from Rose's face; her eyes were wide and staring, her lips scarcely pink. "I must go away," she murmured.

"Where, dearest?"

"Anywhere—oh, anywhere!"

"I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away from things that must be faced sooner or later. We women have our battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth applies to both—that only a coward will retreat under fire."

Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.

"Once there was a ship," said Madame, softly, "sinking in mid-ocean, surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved."

"That was possible—but there can be no signal for me."

"Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band."

The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you— know, Aunt Francesca?"

"Yes, dear."

"For how long?"

"Always, I think."

"Did it seem—absurd, in any way?"

"Not at all. I was hoping for it, until the wind changed. And," she added, with her face turned away, "Colonel Kent was, too."

Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face. "That makes me feel," Rose breathed, "as if I hadn't been quite so foolish as I've been thinking I was."

"Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn't suspect."

"No," cried Rose sharply, "oh, no! Anything but that!"

"It's hard to wear gloves when you don't want to," replied Madame, with seeming irrelevance, "but it's easier when there are others. The Colonel will need them, too—this is going to be hard on him."

"Does-he—know?" whispered Rose, fearfully.

"No," answered Madame, laughing outright, "indeed he doesn't. Did you ever know of a man discovering anything that wasn't right under his nose?"

"And I am safe with-with—"

"With everybody but Isabel. She may be foolish, but she's a woman, and even a woman can see around a corner."

"Thank you for telling me," said Rose, after a little; "for giving me time. It was like you."

"I'm glad I could, but remember, I haven't told you, officially. Let her tell you herself."

Rose nodded. "Then I'll come down just as soon as I can."

"With white gloves on, dear, and flags flying. Make your old aunt proud of you now, won't you?"

"I'll try," she answered, humbly, then quickly closed the door.

Meanwhile Colonel Kent, most correctly attired, was making a formal call upon his prospective daughter-in-law, and the list had scarcely been begun. Isabel sat in the living room, trying not to show that she was bored. The Colonel had come in, ready to receive her into his house and his heart, but Isabel had shaken hands with him coolly, and accepted shrinkingly the fatherly kiss he stooped to bestow upon her forehead.

He had tried several preliminary topics of conversation, which had been met with chilling monosyllables, so he plunged into the heart of the subject, with inward trepidation.

"I told Allison this morning that I owed him my thanks for bringing me a daughter."

"Yes," said Isabel, placidly.

"The old house needs young voices and the sound of young feet," the Colonel went on.

Isabel began to speak, then hesitated and relapsed into silence. Mr. Boffin came in, purring loudly, and rubbed familiarly against the Colonel, leaving a thin coating of yellow hair.

"It seems to be the moulting season for cats," laughed the Colonel, observing the damage ruefully.

Isabel moved restlessly in her chair, but said nothing. The pause had become awkward when the Colonel rose to take his leave.

"I hope you may be happy," he said, gravely, "and make our old house happier for your coming."

"Oh," returned Isabel, quickly, "I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't thought of—of living there."

"The house is large," he ventured, puzzled.

"Mamma has always said," remarked Isabel, primly, "that no house was large enough for two families."

Colonel Kent managed to force a laugh. "You may be right," he answered. "At least, everything shall be arranged to your liking."

He had said good-bye and was on his way out, when Francesca came down from Rose's room. Seeing her, he waited for a moment. Isabel had gone into the library and closed the door.

"Whence this haste?" queried Madame, with a lightness which was just then difficult to assume. "Were you going without seeing me?"

"I had feared I would be obliged to," he returned, gallantly. "I was calling upon my future daughter-in-law," he added, in a low tone, as they went out on the veranda.

Madame sighed and sank gratefully into the chair he offered her. In the broad light of day, she looked old and worn.

"Well," continued the Colonel, with an effort to speak cheerfully, "the blow has fallen."

"So I hear," she rejoined, almost in a whisper. "What tremendous readjustments the heedless young may cause!"

"Yes, but we mustn't deny them the right. The eternal sacrifice of youth to age is one of the most pitiful things in nature—human nature, that is. The animals know better."

"Would you remove all opportunity for the development of character?" she inquired, with a tinge of sarcasm.

"No, but I wouldn't deliberately furnish it. The world supplies it generously enough, I think. Allison didn't ask to be born," he went on, with a change of tone, "and those who brought him into the world are infinitely more responsible to him than he is to them."

"One-sided," returned Madame, abruptly. "And, if so, it's the only thing that is. What of the gift of life?"

"Nothing to speak of," he responded with a cynicism wholly new to her. "I wouldn't go back and live it over, would you?"

"No," she sighed, "I wouldn't. I don't believe anyone would, even the happiest."

"Too much character development?"

"Yes," she admitted, with a shamefaced flush. "You'll have a chance to see, now. It will be right under your nose."

"No," he said, with a certain sad emphasis which did not escape her; "it won't. I shall be at a respectful distance."

"Why, Richard!" she cried, half rising from her chair; "what do you mean? Aren't you going to live with them in the old home?"

The Colonel shook his head.

"Why?" she demanded.

The Colonel raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Orders," he said, briefly. "From headquarters."

"Has Allison—" she began, in astonishment, but he interrupted her.

"No." He inclined his head suggestively toward the house, and she understood.

"The little brute," murmured Francesca. "Richard, believe me, I am ashamed."

"Don't bother," he answered, kindly. "The boy mustn't know. You always plan everything for me—where shall I live now?"

She leaned forward, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, Richard," she breathed, "if you only would—if you could—come to Rose and me! We'd be so glad!"

There was no mistaking her sincerity, and the Colonel's fine old face illumined with pleasure. Merely to be wanted, anywhere, brings a certain satisfaction.

"I'll come," he returned, promptly. "How good you are! How good you've always been! I often wonder what I should ever have done without you."

He turned away and, lightly as a passing cloud, a shadow crossed his face. Madame saw how hard it would be to part from his son, and, only in lesser degree, his old home.

"Richard," she said, "a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its course. The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on their dress uniforms. Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer to the music and all were saved."

The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell. "Thank you, Francesca," he answered, deeply moved. "I put on my white gloves the day you came to tell me. I thank you now for the signal—and for saving me."

She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself, "all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.

She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand, and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes. Madame slipped it into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt. "We'll go over it with Rose," she said. "She knows more about clothes than I do."

"Have you told Cousin Rose?"

"No," answered Madame, avoiding the girl's eyes. "It's your place to tell her—not mine."

When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace. The last yellow roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick, that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.

"Cousin Rose," began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman's magnificence, "I'm engaged—to Allison."

"Really?" cried Rose, with well-assumed astonishment. "Come here and let me kiss the bride-to-be. You must make him very happy," she said, then added, softly: "I pray that you may."

"Everybody seems to think of him and not of me," Isabel returned, a little fretfully.

"That's what Aunt Francesca said, and Allison's father seemed to think more about my making Allison happy than he did about my being happy myself."

"That's because the only way to win happiness is to give it," put in Madame. "The more we give, the more we have."

Conversation lagged at dinner, and became, as often, a monologue by Madame. While they were finishing their coffee, they heard Allison's well-known step outside.

"I wonder why he had to come so early," complained Isabel. "I wanted to change my dress. I didn't have time before dinner."

"He'll never know it," Madame assured her. "We'll excuse you dear, if you're through. Don't keep him waiting."

When the dining-room door closed, Rose turned to Madame. "Did I—"

"Most wonderfully."

"But the hardest part is still to come," she breathed, sadly.

"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more. The best and the last';"

Madame quoted, encouragingly.

Rose smiled—a little wan smile—as she pushed back her chair. "Perhaps," she said, "the 'peace out of pain' may follow me."

She went, with faltering step, toward the other room, inwardly afraid. Another hand met hers, with a reassuring clasp. "One step more, Rose. Now then, forward, march, all flags unfurled."

When she went in, Allison came to meet her with outstretched hands. He had changed subtly, since she saw him last. Had light been poured over him, it would have changed him in much the same way.

"Golden Rose," he said, taking both her hands in his, "tell me you are glad—say that you wish me joy."

Her eyes met his clearly. "I do," she smiled. "There is no one in the world for whom I wish joy more than I do for you."

"And I say the same," chimed in Madame, who had closely followed Rose.

"Dear little foster mother," said Allison, tenderly, putting a strong arm around her. He had not yet released Rose's hand, nor did he note that it was growing cold. "I owe you everything," he went on; "even Isabel."

He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.

Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour, talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose, turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me for leaving you alone?"

"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"

"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."

He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me, dear—dearest."

"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last, by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that refused to yield.

That night he dreamed that, for a single exquisite instant, Isabel had answered him, giving him love for love. Then, strangely enough, Isabel became Rose, in a gown of gold, with golden roses twined in her hair.



XIV

THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE

Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.

When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned," predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.

"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when you do."

"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.

Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"

"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is certainly a very pretty girl."

"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.

The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.

"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."

The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad," he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes—as a guest."

Allison's fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate. "Dad! What do you mean?"

"No house is large enough for two families," repeated the Colonel, with an unconscious, parrot-like accent.

"Why, Dad! We've always stood together—surely you won't desert me now?"

The old man's eyes softened with mist. He could not trust himself to meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.

"I can't understand," Allison went on, doubtfully. "Is it possible— could she-did-Isabel—?"

"No" said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes. "She didn't!"

"Of course she didn't," returned Allison, fully satisfied. "She couldn't—she's not that kind. What a brute I was even to think it! But why, Dad? Please tell me why!"

"Francesca asked me this afternoon if I would come to her and Rose, after the—afterwards, you know, and I promised."

"If you promised, I suppose that settles it," remarked Allison, gloomily, "but I wish you hadn't. I can understand that they would want you, too, for of course they'll be desperately lonely after Isabel goes away."

A certain peace crept into the old man's sore heart. Surely there was something to live for still.

"I hope you didn't tell Aunt Francesca you'd stay there always," Allison was saying, anxiously.

"No," answered the Colonel, with a smile; "there was no limit specified."

"Then we'll consider it only a visit and a short one at that—just until they get a little used to Isabel's being away. This is your rightful place, Dad, and Isabel and I both want you—don't ever forget that!"

When Allison had gone in search of his beloved, the Colonel sat on the veranda alone, accustomed, now, to evenings spent thus. His garden promised well, he thought, having produced two or three sickly roses in the very first season. The shrubs and trees that had survived ten years of neglect had been pruned and tied and would doubtless do well next year, if Isabel—

"I hope he'll never find out," the Colonel said to himself. Then he remembered that, for the first time in his life, he had lied to his son, and took occasion to observe the highly spectacular effect of an untruth from an habitually truthful person.

"He never doubted me, not for an instant," mused the Colonel, "but it's just as well that I'm going. She could probably manage it, if we lived in the same house, so that I'd have to tell at least one lie a day, and I'm not an expert. Perfection might come with practice—I've known it to—but I'm too old to begin."

He was deeply grateful to Francesca for her solution of the problem that confronted him. It had appeared and been duly solved in the space of half an hour. She had been his good angel for more than thirty years. It might be very pleasant to live there, after he became accustomed to the change, and with Allison so near—why, he couldn't be half as lonely as he was now. So his thoughts drifted into a happier channel and he was actually humming an old song to himself when he heard Allison's step, almost at midnight, on the road just beyond the gate.

He went in quietly, closed the door, and was in his own room when Allison's latch-key rattled in the lock. The Colonel took pains not to be heard moving about, but it was unnecessary, for Allison's heart was beating in time with its own music, and surging with the nameless rapture that comes but once.

Down in the moon-lit, dream-haunted garden, Allison waited for Isabel, as the First Man might have waited for the First Woman, in another garden, countless ages ago. Stars were mirrored in the lily-pool; the waning moon swung low. The roses had gone, except a few of the late- blooming sort, but the memory of their fragrance lingered still in the velvet dusk.

No music came from the quiet house, for Rose had not touched the piano since That Night. It stood out in his remembrance in capitals, as it did in hers, for widely different reasons. Only Isabel, cherishing no foolish sentiment as to dates and places, could have forgotten That Night.

With a lover's fond fancy, Allison had written a note to Isabel, asking her to meet him in the garden by the lily-pool, at nine, and to wear the silver-spangled gown. It was already past the hour and he had begun to be impatient, though he was sure she had received the note.

A cobweb in the grass at his feet shone faintly afar—like Isabel's spangles, he thought. A soft-winged wayfarer of the night brushed lightly against his cheek in passing, and he laughed aloud, to think that a grey moth should bring the memory of a kiss. Then, with a swift sinking of the heart, he remembered Isabel's unvarying coldness. Never for an instant had she answered him as Rose—

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, angrily. "What an unspeakable cad I am!"

There was a light step on the path and Isabel appeared out of the shadows. She was holding up her skirts and seemed annoyed. In the first glance Allison noted that she was not wearing the spangled gown.

She submitted to his eager embrace and endured his kiss; even the blindest lover could not have said more. Yet her coldness only thrilled him to the depths with love of her, as has been the way of men since the world began.

"I don't understand this foolishness," she said, fretfully, as she released herself from his encircling arm. "It's damp and chilly out here, and I'll get wet and take cold."

"It isn't damp, darling, and you can't take cold. Why didn't you wear the spangles?"

"Do you suppose I want to spoil my best gown dragging it through the wet grass?"

"The grass isn't wet, and, anyhow, you haven't been on it—only on the path. Come over here to the bench and sit down."

"I don't want to. I want to go in."

"All right, but not just yet. I'll carry you, if you're afraid of dampness." Before she could protest, he had picked her up and laughingly seated her on the bench at the edge of the lily-pool.

Isabel smoothed her rumpled hair. "You've mussed me all up," she complained. "Why can't we go in? Aunt Francesca and Rose are upstairs."

"Listen, sweetheart. Please be patient with me just a minute, won't you? I've brought you your engagement ring."

"Oh," cried Isabel, delightedly. "Let me see it!"

"I want to tell you about it first. You remember, don't you, that the first night I came here, you were wearing a big silver pin—a turquoise matrix, set in dull silver?"

"I've forgotten."

"Well, I haven't. Someway, it seemed to suit you as jewels seldom suit anybody, and you had it on the other night when you promised to marry me. Both times you were wearing the spangled gown, and that's why I asked for it to-night, and why I've had your engagement ring made of a turquoise."

Isabel murmured inarticulately, but he went on, heedlessly: "It's made of silver because you're my Silver Girl, the design is all roses because it was in the time of roses, and it's a turquoise for reasons I've told you. Our initials and the date are inside."

Allison slipped it on her finger and struck a match that she might see it plainly. Isabel turned it on her finger listlessly.

"Very pretty," she said, in a small, thin voice, after an awkward pause.

"Why, dearest," he cried, "don't you like it?"

"It's well enough," she answered, slowly, "but not for an engagement ring. Everybody else has diamonds. I thought you cared enough for me to give me a diamond," she said, reproachfully.

"I do," he assured her, "and you shall have diamonds—as many as I can give you. Why, sweet, this is only the beginning. There's a long life ahead of us, isn't there? Do you think I'm never going to give my wife any jewels?"

"Aunt Francesca and Rose put you up to this," said Isabel, bitterly. "They never want me to have anything."

"They know nothing whatever about it," he replied, rather coldly, taking it from her finger as he spoke. "Listen, Isabel. Would you rather have a diamond in your engagement ring?"

"Of course. I'd be ashamed to have anybody know that this was my engagement ring."

"All right," said Allison, with defiant cheerfulness. "You shall have just exactly what you want, and, to make sure, I'll take you with me when I go to get it. I'm sorry I made such a mistake."

There was a flash of blue and silver in the faint light, and a soft splash in the lily-pool. "There," he went on, "it's out of your way now."

"You didn't need to throw it away," she said, icily. "I didn't say I didn't want it, nor that I wouldn't wear it. I only said I wanted a diamond."

"It could be found, I suppose," he replied, thoughtfully, ashamed of his momentary impulse. "If the pool were drained—"

"That would cost more than the ring is worth," Isabel interrupted. "Come, let's go in."

He was about to explain that a very good-sized pool could be drained for the price of the ring, but fortunately thought better of it, and was bitterly glad, now, that he had thrown it away.

In the house they talked of other things, but the thrust still lingered in his consciousness, unforgotten.

"How's your father?" inquired Isabel, in a conversational pause, as she could think of nothing else to say.

"All right, I guess. Why?"

"I haven't seen him lately. He hasn't been over since the day he called on me."

"Guess I haven't thought to ask him to come along. Dad is possessed just at present by a very foolish idea. They've told you, haven't they?"

"No. Told me what?"

"Why, that after we're carried, he's to come over here to live with Aunt Francesca and Rose, and give us the house to ourselves."

"I hadn't heard," she replied, indifferently.

"I don't know when I've felt so badly about anything," Allison resumed. "We've always been together and we've been more like two chums than father and son. It's like taking my best friend away from me, but I know he'll come back to us, if you ask him to."

"Probably," she assented, coldly. "I suppose we'll be in town for the Winters, won't we, and only live here in the Summer?"

"I don't know, dear; we'll see. I've got to go to see my manager very soon, and Dad asked me to find out what you wanted for a wedding present. I'm to help him select it."

"Can I have anything I choose?" she queried, keenly interested now.

"Anything within reason," he smiled. "I'm sorry we're not millionaires."

"Could I have an automobile?"

"Perhaps. What kind?"

"A big red touring car, with room for four or five people in it?"

"I'll tell him. It would be rather nice to have one, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would," she cried, clapping her hands. "Oh, Allison, do persuade him to get it, won't you?"

"I won't have to, if he can. I've never had to persuade my father into anything he could do for me."

When he went home, Isabel kissed him, of her own accord, for the first time. It was a cold little kiss, accompanied with a whispered plea for the red automobile, but it set his heart to thumping wildly, and made him forget the disdained turquoise, that lay at the bottom of the lily- pool.

Within a few days, Isabel was the happy possessor of an engagement ring with a diamond in it—a larger, brighter stone than she had ever dreamed of having. Colonel Kent had also readily promised the automobile, though he did not tell Allison that he should be obliged to sell some property in order to acquire a really fine car. It took until the end of the month to make the necessary arrangements, but on the afternoon of the thirtieth, a trumpeting red monster, bright with brass, drew up before the Kent's door, having come out from town on its own power.

As the two men had taken a brief tour over the wonderful roads of France, with Allison at the wheel, he felt no hesitation in trying an unfamiliar car. The old throb of exultation came back when the monster responded to his touch and chugged out of the driveway on its lowest speed.

He turned back to wave his hand at his father, who stood smiling on the veranda, with the chauffeur beside him. "I'll get Isabel," he called, "then come back for you."

He reached Madame Bernard's without accident and Isabel, almost wild with joy, ran out of the gate to meet him and climbed in. Only Rose, from the shelter of her curtains, saw them as they went away.

"Where shall we go?" Isabel asked. She was hatless and the sun dwelt lovingly upon her shining black hair.

"Back for Dad. He's waiting for us. Do you like it, dear?"

"Indeed I do. Oh, so much! It was lovely of him, wasn't it? He wouldn't care, would he, if we took a little ride just by ourselves before we went back for him?"

"Of course not, but we can't go far and we'll have to go fast."

"I love to go fast. I've never been fast enough yet. I wonder if the Crosbys have got their automobile?"

"I heard so, but I haven't seen it. I understand that Romeo is learning to drive it in the narrow boundaries of the yard."

"What day of the month is it?"

"The thirtieth. There's less than three months to wait now, darling— then you'll be mine, all mine."

"Then this is the day the Crosbys were going to celebrate—it's the anniversary of their uncle's death. I'm glad we've got our automobile. Can't we go by there? It's only three miles, and I'd love to have them see us go by, at full speed."

Obediently, Allison turned into the winding road which led to Crosbys's and, to please Isabel, drove at the third speed. Once under way, the road spun dustily backward under the purring car, and the wind in their faces felt like the current of a stream.

"Oh," cried Isabel, rapturously; "isn't it lovely!"

"I'm almost afraid to go so fast, dear. If there should be another car on this road, we might collide at some of these sharp turns."

"But there isn't. There's not another automobile in this sleepy little town, except the Crosbys'. It isn't likely that they're out in theirs now, on this road."

But, as it happened, they were. After some difficulties at the start, Romeo had engineered "The Yellow Peril" out through a large break in the fence. The twins wore their brown suits with tan leather trimmings, and, as planned long ago, the back seat of the machine was partially filled with raw meat of the sort most liked by Romeo's canine dependents.

Two yellow flags fluttered from the back of the driver's seat. One had the initials "C. T." in black, on the other, in red, was "The Yellow Peril." The name of the machine and the monogram were strikingly in evidence on the doors and at the back, where a choice cut of roast beef, uncooked, dangled temptingly by a strong cord.

Just before they started, Juliet unfastened the barn door and freed nineteen starving dogs, all in collars suited to the general colour scheme of the automobile, and bearing the initials: "C. T." When they sniffed the grateful odour borne on the warm June wind, they plunged after the machine with howls and yelps of delight. Only Minerva remained behind, having five new puppies to care for.

"Oh, Romie, Romie!" shouted Juliet, in ecstasy. "They're coming! See!"

Romeo looked back for the fraction of an instant, saw that they were, indeed, "coming," and then discovered that he had lost control of the machine. "Sit tight," he said, to Juliet, between clenched teeth.

"I am," she screamed, gleefully. "Oh, Romie, if uncle could only see us now!"

"Uncle's likely to see us very soon," retorted Romeo grimly, "unless I can keep her on the road."

But Juliet was absorbed in the joy of the moment and did not hear. A cloud of dust, through which gleamed brass and red, appeared on the road ahead of them, having rounded the curve at high speed. At the same instant, Allison saw just beyond him, the screaming fantasy of colour and sound.

"Jump!" he cried to Isabel. "Jump for your life!"

She immediately obeyed him, falling in a little white heap at the roadside. He rose, headed the machine toward the ditch at the right, and jumped to the left, falling face down in the road with his hands outstretched, Before he could stir, the other machine roared heavily over him, grazing his left hand and crushing it into the deep dust.

There was almost an instant of unbelievable agony, then, mercifully, darkness and oblivion.



XV

"HOW SHE WILL COME TO ME"

The darkness swayed but did not lift. There was a strange rhythm in its movement, as though it were the sea, but there was no sound. Black shadows crept upon him, then slowly ebbed away. At times he was part of the darkness, at others, separate from it, yet lying upon it and wholly sustained by it.

At intervals, the swaying movement changed. His feet sank slowly in distinct pulsations until he stood almost upright, then his head began to sink and his feet to rise. When his head was far down and his feet almost directly above him, the motion changed again and he came back gradually to the horizontal, sinking back with one heart-beat and rising with the next—always a little higher.

How still it was! The silence of eternity was in that all compassing dark, which reached to the uttermost boundaries of space. It was hollow and empty, save for him, rising and falling, rising and falling, in a series of regular movements corresponding almost exactly to the ticking of a watch.

A faint, sickening odour crept through the darkness, followed by a black overwhelming shadow which threatened to engulf him in its depths. Still swaying, he waited for it calmly. All at once it was upon him, but swiftly receded. He seemed to sway backward out of it, and as he looked back upon it, gathering its forces for another attack, he saw that it was different from the darkness upon which he lay—that, instead of black, it was a deep purple.

The odour persisted and almost nauseated him. It was vaguely familiar, though he had never before come into intimate contact with it. Was it the purple shadow, that ebbed and flowed so strangely upon his dark horizon, growing to a brighter purple with each movement?

The purple grew very bright, then deepened to blue—almost black. Dancing tongues of flame shot through the darkness, as he swung through it, up and down, like a ship moved by a heavy ground swell. The flames took colour and increased in number. Violet, orange, blue, green, and yellow flickered for an instant, then disappeared.

The darkness was not quite so heavy, but it still swayed. The javelins of flame shot through it continually, making a web of iridescence. Then the purple shadow approached majestically and put them out. When it retreated, they came again, but the colour was fainter.

The yellow flames darted toward him from every conceivable direction, stabbing him like needles. In this light, the purple shadow changed to blue and began to grow brighter. The sickening odour was so strong now that he could scarcely breathe. The blue shadow warred with the yellow flames, but could not put them out. He saw now that the shadow was his friend and the flames were a host of enemies.

All the little stabbing lights suddenly merged into one. He was surrounded by fire that burned him as he swayed back and forth, and the cool shadows were gone. The light grew intense and terrible, but he could not lift his hand to shade his eyes. Slowly the orange deepened to scarlet in which he spun around giddily among myriads of blood-red disks. The scarlet grew brighter and brighter until it became a white, streaming light. All at once the swaying stopped.

The intensity of the white light was agreeably tempered by a grey mist. Through the vapour, he saw the outlines of his own chiffonier, across the room. A woman in spotless white moved noiselessly about. Even though she did not look at him, he felt a certain friendliness toward her. She seemed to have been with him while he swayed through the shadow and it was pleasant to know that he had not been alone.

On the table near the window, his violin lay as he had left it. The case was standing in a corner and his music stand had toppled over. The torn sheets of music rustled idly on the floor, and he wondered, fretfully, why the woman in white did not pick them up.

As if in answer to his thought, she stooped, and gathered them together, quietly sorting the pages and putting them into the open drawer that held his music. She closed the drawer and folded up his music stand without making a sound. She seemed far removed from him, like someone from another world.

Cloud surrounded her, but he caught glimpses of her through it occasionally. She took up his violin, very carefully, put it into its case, and carried it out of the room. He did not care very much, but it seemed rather an impolite thing to do. He knew that he would not have stolen a violin when the owner was in the same room.

Soon she came back and he was reassured. She had not stolen it after all. She might have broken it, for she seemed to feel very sorry about something. She was wiping her eyes with a bit of white, as women always did when they cried.

It was not necessary for her to cry, on account of one broken violin, for he had thousands of them—Stradivarius, Amati, Cremona; everything. Some of them were highly coloured and very rare on that account. He had only to go to his storehouse, present a ticket, and choose whatever he liked—red, green, yellow, or even striped.

Everybody who played the violin needed a great many of them, for the different moods of music. It was obvious that the dark brown violin with which he played slow, sad music could not be used for the Hungarian Dances. He had a special violin for those, striped with barbaric colour.

The woman who had broken one of his violins stood at the window with her back toward him. Her shoulders shook and from time to time she lifted the bit of white to her eyes. It was annoying, he thought; even worse than the shadows and the fire. He was about to call to her and suggest, ironically, that she had cried enough and that the flowers would be spoiled if they got too wet, when someone called, from the next room: "Miss Rose!"

She turned quickly, wiped her eyes once more, and, without making a sound, went out on the white cloud that surrounded her half way to her waist.

He tried to change his position a little and felt his own bed under him. His body was stiff and sore, but he had the use of it, except his left arm. Try as he might, he could not move it, for it was weighted down and it hurt terribly.

"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose." The words beat hard in his ears like a clock ticking loudly. The accent was on the "Miss"—the last word was much fainter. "Rose Miss" was wrong, so the other must be right, except for the misplaced accent. Did the accent always come on the first beat of a measure? He had forgotten, but he would ask the man at the storehouse when he went to get the striped violin for the Hungarian Dances.

His left hand throbbed with unbearable agony. The room began to spin slowly on its axis. There was no mist now, or even a shadow, and every sense was abnormally acute. The objects in the whirling room were phenomenally clear; even a scratch on the front of his chiffonier stood out distinctly.

He could hear a clock ticking, though there was no clock in his room. Afar was the sound of women sobbing—two of them. Above it a strange voice said, distinctly: "There is not one chance in a thousand of saving his hand. If I had nurses, I would amputate now, before he recovers consciousness."

The words struck him with the force of a blow, though he did not fully realise what they meant. The pain in his left arm and the sickening odour nauseated him. The cool black shadow drowned the objects in the room and crept upon him stealthily. Presently he was swaying again, up and down, up and down, in the all-encompassing, all-hiding dark.

So it happened that he did not hear Colonel Kent's ringing answer: "You shall not amputate until every great surgeon in the United States has said that it is absolutely necessary. I leave on the next train, and shall send them and keep on sending until there are no more to send. Until a man comes who thinks there is a chance of saving it, you are in charge—after that, it is his case."

Day by day, a continuous procession came to the big Colonial house. Allison became accustomed to the weary round of darkness, pain, sickening odours, strange faces, darkness, and so on, endlessly, without pity or pause.

The woman in white had mysteriously vanished. In her place were two, in blue and white, with queer, unbecoming caps. They were there one at a time, always; never for more than a few minutes were they together. When the fierce, hot agony became unendurable for even a moment longer, one of them would lean over him with a bit of shining silver in her hand, and stab him sharply for an instant. Then, with incredible quickness, came peace.

Once, when two strange men had come together, and had gone into the adjoining room, he caught disconnected fragments of conversation. "Hypersensitive-impossible—not much longer—interesting case." He wondered, as he began to sway in the darkness again, what "hypersensitive" meant. Surely, he used to know.

Still, it did not matter—nothing mattered now. In the brief intervals of consciousness, he began to wonder what he had been doing just before this happened, whatever it was. It took him days to piece out the disconnected memories past the whirling room, the woman in white and the creeping shadows, to the red touring car and Isabel.

His heart throbbed painfully, held though it was by some iron hand, icy cold, in a pitiless clutch. Weakly, he summoned the blue and white woman who sat in a low chair across his room. She came quickly, and put her ear very close to his lips that she might hear what he said.

"Was—she—hurt?"

"No," said the blue and white woman, very kindly. "Only slightly bruised."

The next day he summoned her again. As before, she bent very low to catch the gasping words: "Where is-my—father?"

"He had to go to town on business. He will come back just as soon as he can."

"He-is—dead," said Allison, with difficulty. "Nothing else—could take- him-away—now."

"No," she assured him, "you must believe me. He's all right. Everybody else is all right and we hope you soon will be."

"No use—talking of—it," he breathed, hoarsely. "I know."

Singly, by twos and even threes, the strange men continued to come from the City. Allison submitted wearily to the painful examinations that seemed so unnecessary. Some of the men seemed kind, even sympathetic. Others were cold and impassive, like so many machines. Still others, and these were in the majority, were almost brutal.

It was one of the latter sort who one day drew a chair up to the side of the bed with a scraping noise that made the recumbent figure quiver from head to foot. The man's face was almost colourless, his bulging blue eyes were cold and fish-like, distorted even more by the strong lenses of his spectacles.

"Better have it over with," he suggested. "I can do it now."

"Do what?" asked Allison, with difficulty.

"Amputate your hand. There's no chance."

The blue and white young woman then on duty came forward. "I beg your pardon, Doctor, but Colonel Kent left strict orders not to operate without his consent."

The strange man disdained to answer the nurse, but turned to Allison again. "Do you know where your father can be reached by wire?"

"My father—is dead," Allison insisted. He closed his eyes and would answer no more questions. In the next room, he heard the nurse and the doctor talking in low tones that did not carry. Only one word rose above the murmur: "delusion."

Allison repeated it to himself as he sank into the darkness again, wondering what it meant and of whom they were speaking.

Slowly he recovered from the profound shock, but his hand did not improve. He had an idea that the ceaseless bandaging and unbandaging were dangerous as well as painful, but said nothing. He knew that his career had come to its end before it had really begun, but it did not seem to affect him in any way. He considered it unemotionally and impersonally, when he thought of it at all.

Two more men came together. One was brutal, the other merely cold. They shook their heads and went away. A few days later, a man of the rare sort came; a gentle, kindly, sympathetic soul, who seemed human and real.

After the examination was finished, Allison asked, briefly: "Any chance?"

The kindly man hesitated for an instant, then told the truth. "I'm afraid not."

The nurse happened to be out of the room, none the less, Allison motioned to him to come closer. Almost in a whisper he said: "Can you give me anything that will make me strong enough to write half a dozen lines?"

"Could no one else write it for you?"

"No one."

"Couldn't I take the message?"

"Could anyone take a message for me to the girl I was going to marry— now?"

"I understand," said the other, gently. "We'll see. You must make it very brief."

When the nurse came back, they gave him a pencil, propped a book up before him, and fastened a sheet of paper to it by a rubber band. After the powerful stimulant the doctor administered had begun to take effect, Allison managed to write, in a very shaky, almost illegible hand:

"MY DEAREST:

"My left hand will have to come off. As I can't ask you to marry a cripple, the only honourable thing for me to do is to release you from our engagement. Don't think I blame you. Good-bye, darling, and may God bless you.

"A. K."

The effort exhausted him greatly, but the thing was done. The nurse folded it, put it into an envelope, sealed it, and took the pencil from him.

"You'll let me address it, won't you?" she asked.

"Yes. Miss Isabel Ross. Anyone in the house can tell you where—anyone will take it to her. Thank you," he added, speaking to the doctor.

That night, for the first time, the situation began to affect him personally. In the hours after midnight, as the forces of the physical body ebbed toward the lowest point, those of the mind seemed to increase. Staring at the low night light, that by its feeble flicker exorcised the thousand phantoms that beset him, he could think clearly. In a rocking chair, across the room, the night nurse dozed, with a white shawl wrapped around her. He could hear her deep, regular breathing as she slept.

His father was dead—he knew that for an absolute fact, and wondered why the two kind women and the endless, varying procession of men should so persistently lie to him about this when they were willing to tell him the truth about everything else.

He also knew that, sooner or later, his left hand would be amputated and that his career would come to an inglorious end—indeed, the end had already come. The ordeal painfully shadowed upon his horizon was only the final seal. Fortunately there was money enough for everything—he would want pitifully little for the rest of his life.

His life stretched out before him in a waste of empty years. He was thirty, now, and his father had lived until well past seventy; might have lived many years more had he not died when his heart broke over the misfortunes of his idolised son. He could remember the rumble of the carriage wheels the night of the funeral. The nurse had dozed in her chair just as she was dozing now, while downstairs they carried his father out of the house in a black casket and buried him. It was all as clear as though it had happened yesterday, instead of ages ago.

A clock, somewhere near by, chimed three quick, silvery strokes. With the last stroke, the clock in the kitchen struck three, also, in a different tone and with an annoying briskness of manner. As the echo died away, the old grandfather's clock on the landing boomed out three portentously solemn chimes. It was followed almost immediately by a cheery, impertinent little clock, insisting that it was four and almost time for sunrise.

The nurse stirred in her chair, yawned, and came over to the bed. She straightened the blankets with a practised hand, changed his hot pillow for a fresh one, brought him a drink of cool water, and went back to her chair without having said a word. The gentle ministry comforted him insensibly. What magic there was in the touch of a woman's hand! But, in the long grey years ahead, there would be no woman, unless—Isabel—

Sometime that afternoon, or early in the evening, she had received his note. It was not strange that they had not allowed her to come to see him, because no one had seen him but the doctors and nurses. Even Aunt Francesca, whom he had known all his life, had not darkened his open door.

But now, Isabel would come—she could not help but come. With the passing of the fateful hour, strength began to return slowly. She would come to-morrow, and every tick of the clock brought to-morrow a second nearer.

A steadily increasing warmth came into his veins and thawed the ice around his heart. The cold hand that had held it so long mercifully loosened its fingers. He turned his face toward the Eastern window, that he might watch for the first faint glow.

A single long, deepening shadow struck across the far horizon like the turning out of a light. Almost immediately, the distant East brightened. Day was coming—the sun, and Isabel.

With the first hint of colour, hope dawned in his soul, changing to certainty as the light increased. It was not in the way of things that he, who had always had everything, should at one fell stroke be left desolate. Out of the wreckage there was one thing he might keep—Isabel.

He laughed at the thought that she would accept her release. What would he have done he asked himself, were it she instead of him? Could mutilation, or even death, change his love for her? He was equally sure that hers could not be changed.

It was fortunate that she was saved—that it was he instead of Isabel. She had pretty hands—such dear hands as men have loved and kissed since, back in the garden, the First Woman gave hers to the First Man, that he might lead her wheresoever he would.

In the midst of the wreckage, he perceived a divine compensation, for Isabel would not fail him—she could not fail him now. Transfigured by tenderness, her coldness changed to the utmost yielding, to-morrow would bring him his goddess, a deeply-loving woman at last.

"How she will come to me," he said to himself, feeling, in fancy, her soft arms around him, and her warm lips on his, while the life-current flowed steadily from her to him and made him a man again, not a weakling. His heart beat with a joy that was almost pain, for he could feel her intoxicating nearness even now. Perhaps her sweet eyes would overflow with the greatness of her love and her tears would fall upon his face when she knelt beside him, to lay her head upon his breast.

"How she will come to me!" he breathed, in ecstasy. "Ah, how she will come!"

And so, smiling, he slept, as the first shaft of sun that brought his dear To-Morrow fell full upon his face.



XVI

HOW ISABEL CAME

Madame Bernard and Rose were so deeply affected by Allison's misfortune that they scarcely took note of Isabel's few bruises, greatly to that young woman's disgust. She chose to consider herself in the light of a martyr and had calmly received the announcement that Allison's left hand would probably have to be amputated.

None of them had seen him, though the two older women were ready to go at any hour of the day or night they might be needed or asked for. Isabel affected a sprained ankle and limped badly when anyone was looking. Once or twice she had been seen to walk almost as usual, though she did not know it.

The upper hall, and, occasionally, the other parts of the house, smelled of the various liniments and lotions with which she anointed herself. She scorned the suggestion that she should stay in bed, for she was quite comfortable upon a couch, in her most becoming negligee, with a novel and a box of chocolates to bear her company.

At first, she had taken her meals in her own room, but, finding that it was more pleasant to be downstairs with the others for luncheon and dinner, managed to go up and down the long flight of stairs twice each day.

Placid as she was, the table was not a cheerful place, for the faces of the other two were haggard and drawn, and neither made more than a pretence of eating. Daily bulletins came from the other house as to Allison's condition, and Madame was in constant communication by telegraph with Colonel Kent. She kept him reassured as much as possible, and did not tell him of Allison's ineradicable delusion that his father was dead.

Allison's note was given to Isabel at luncheon the day after it was written, having been delayed in delivery the night before until after she was asleep. With it was a letter from her mother, which had come in the noon mail.

She opened Allison's note first, read it, and put it back into the envelope. Her mother's letter was almost equally brief. That, too, she returned to its envelope without comment.

"How is your mother, Isabel?" inquired Madame, having caught a glimpse of the bold, dashing superscription which was familiar, though infrequent.

"She's all right," Isabel answered, breaking open a hot muffin. "It's funny that it should come at the same time as the other."

"Why?" asked Rose, merely for the sake of making conversation.

"Because just as Mamma writes to tell me that marriage is slavery, but that if he can take care of me and Aunt Francesca approves of him, it will be all right, Allison writes and releases me from the engagement."

"Poor boy!" sighed Madame.

"I don't know why you should say 'poor boy,'" Isabel observed, rather fretfully. "He's not very ill if he can write letters. I'm sure I don't feel like writing any."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Madame, half to herself.

"And as for his releasing me," Isabel went on, coolly, "I'm glad he was decent enough to do it and save me the trouble of releasing myself."

Rose got to her feet somehow, her face deathly white. "Do you mean," she cried, "that you would think for a minute of accepting release?"

"Why, certainly," the girl replied, in astonishment. "Why not? He says himself that he can't ask me to marry a cripple."

Rose winced visibly. "Isabel!" she breathed. "Oh, Isabel!"

"My dear," said Madame, with such kindness as she could muster, "have you forgotten that he saved you from death, or worse?"

"He didn't do anything for me but to tell me to jump. I did more for him than that. Nobody seems to think it was anything for me to get up out of the dust, with my best white dress all ruined and my face scratched and my ankle sprained and one arm bleeding, and help the Crosbys carry a heavy man to their machine and lay him on the back seat."

"I thought the Crosbys carried him," put in Madame. "They're strong enough to do it, I should think."

"Well, I helped. I had to take all that nasty raw meat out of the back seat and throw it out in the ditch to the dogs, and stand up all the way home, bruised as I was, to keep him from falling off the seat. We were in a perfect bedlam there for a while, but it doesn't seem to make any difference to anybody. Nobody cares what happens to me."

"Besides," she went on, with her voice raised to a high pitch by excitement, "I don't see why I should be expected to marry a man with only one hand. He can't play any more, and if he can't play, how can he make any money to take care of me, even if I should tie myself to him for life? Do you expect me to take in washing and take care of him?"

"Isabel," said Madame, coldly, "please stop talking so loudly and please listen for a moment. Nobody expects you to marry a man whom, for any reason on earth, you do not love well enough to marry. Kindly consider that as something to be settled in accordance with your own wishes and desires."

"Certainly,"' interrupted the girl. "I'd like to see anybody force me to marry him!"

Madame compressed her lips into a thin, tight line, and her face became stern, even hard. She clenched her small hands tightly and her breath came quickly. A red spot burned on either cheek.

Never having seen Madame angry before, Rose was almost frightened. She herself was not angry, but hurt—for him. At the moment she heard of the accident, her love for him had transcended the bounds of self and merged into prayer for him and for his good, whatever that might prove to be.

"Isabel," said Rose, very softly, "will you do one thing for me?"

"What?" Isabel demanded, suspiciously.

"Listen, dear. For me, if not for him, will you go to him, and—well, simply be kind? Don't let him think that this terrible thing has separated him from you or changed your love. Wait until he is strong and well again before you tell him. Will you, please?"

Isabel's flushed face took on the expression of outraged virtue. "I don't know why I should be expected to lie," she remarked evasively, with a subtle change of manner.

Madame Bernard cleared her throat. "Your love was a lie," she said, in a tone that neither of them had ever heard her use before. "One more won't matter."

Isabel fidgeted in her chair and nervously tapped the edge of her plate with her fork. "I haven't heard anybody say," she began, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "that his father doesn't love him, and yet he hasn't gone near him—hasn't even seen him since we were hurt. If Colonel Kent can stay away from him, I don't know why I can't."

The argument seemed unanswerable, for neither Madame nor Rose spoke. They sat with averted eyes until the silence became oppressive, and Isabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limped painfully out of the room.

When she had locked her own door, she was more at ease, and began to survey her unpleasant situation. Nobody seemed to consider her at all— it was only Allison, and everything and everybody, apparently, must be sacrificed for him. Just because she had promised to marry him, when he had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact that he saw it was impossible.

Isabel sighed heavily. Nobody knew how keenly disappointed she was. She had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous violinist.

She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them—or, at least, her. It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the concerts.

She had planned it all as she took lazy stitches in her dainty lingerie. Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had stopped suddenly. It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it, for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.

If she could find anybody who had plenty of money and would be good to her, she knew that she would encounter no parental opposition, in spite of Mrs. Ross's pronounced views upon the slavery of matrimony.

Allison had been very decent in releasing her from her awkward predicament. He had even arranged it so that no answer was necessary and she need not even see him again. She had the natural shrinking of the healthy young animal from its own stricken kind. It would be much nicer not to see him again.

But, if he could write letters now, it would not be long before he would be able to come over, though his hand had not yet been taken off. It was too bad, for everything had been very pleasant until the accident. She had missed Allison's daily visits and had probably lost the touring car, though as she had taken pains to find out, it had fallen into the ditch and had been injured very little.

Aunt Francesca and Rose had been queer ever since it happened. After Colonel Kent and the servants and the twins had lifted Allison out of "The Yellow Peril" and carried him up to his own room on an improvised stretcher, while someone else was telephoning for every doctor in the neighbourhood, the twins had taken her home. She had insisted upon their helping her up the steps, and as soon as Aunt Francesca and Rose heard the news, they had paid no attention to her at all, but, with one voice, had demanded that the twins should take them to Kent's immediately.

They had gone without even stopping for their hats, and left her wholly to the servants. Even when they had come home, late at night, in their own carriage, it was over half an hour before Aunt Francesca came to her room, so overburdened with selfish grief that she did not even listen to the recital of Isabel's numerous bruises.

Perhaps it would be best to go away, though the city was terrible in Summer, and she had only money enough to take her to the hotel where her mother retained a suite of three rooms. If Aunt Francesca and Rose would leave her alone in the house long enough, and she could pack a suit-case and get the carriage just in time to take her to the train, she could write a formal note and ask to have the rest of her things sent by express. If there were a late train, or one very early in the morning, she could probably manage it, even without the carriage, but, on consulting the time-table, she found that trains did not run at hours suitable for escape.

However, it was just as well to pack while she had time. She could keep the suit-case hidden until the auspicious moment arrived. It would only take a moment to open it and sweep her toilet articles into it from the top of her dresser.

She had just taken a fresh shirtwaist out of the drawer when there was a light, determined rap at the door. When she opened it, she was much astonished to see Aunt Francesca come in, dressed for a drive.

"Are you almost ready, Isabel?" she asked, politely.

"Ready," gasped the girl. "For what?"

It seemed for the moment as though she had been anticipated in her departure and was about to be put out of the house.

"To drive over to Kent's," answered Madame, imperturbably. From her manner one would have thought the drive had been long planned.

Isabel sat down on her bed. "I'm not going," she said.

"Oh, yes, you are," returned Madame, in a small, thin voice. "You may go in your tea gown and slippers if you prefer, but I will wait until you dress, if you are quick about it."

"I won't," Isabel announced, flatly. "I'm sick. You know I'm all bruised up and I can't walk."

"You can walk down-stairs and it's only a few steps farther to the carriage. I telephoned over to ask if he would see you, and the nurse said that he would be very glad to see you—that he had been asking all day why you did not come. The carriage is waiting at the door, so please hurry."

Isabel was head and shoulders taller than the determined little lady who stood there, waiting, but there was something in her manner that demanded immediate obedience. Sullenly, Isabel began to dress. If Aunt Francesca went with her, it would not be necessary to say much. She caught at the thought as though she were drowning and the proverbial straw had floated into reach.

She took her time about dressing, but Madame said nothing. She simply stood there, waiting, in the open door, until the last knot was tied, the last pin adjusted, and the last stray lock brushed into place.

Isabel limped ostentatiously all the way down-stairs and had to be assisted into the carriage. During the brief drive neither spoke. The silence was unbroken until they reached the door of Allison's room, then Madame said, in a low tone: "The carriage will call for you in an hour. Remember he loves you, and be kind."

Up to that moment, Isabel had not suspected that she would be obliged to see him alone. She was furious with Aunt Francesca for thus betraying her, but no retreat was possible. The nurse smilingly ushered her in, passed her almost on the threshold, and went out, quietly closing the door.

Allison, as eager as a boy of twenty, had half risen in bed. The injured hand was hidden by the sheet, but the other was outstretched in welcome. "Isabel," he breathed. "My Isabel!"

Isabel did not move. "How do you do?" she said primly.

"I'm sorry I can't get you a chair, dear. Come close, won't you?"

Isabel limped painfully to the chair that was farthest from him, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down—just out of his reach. Below, the rumble of wheels announced that Madame had gone back home. Unless she walked, Isabel was stranded at Kent's for a full hour.

"My note," Allison was saying. "You got it, didn't you?"

"Yes. It came while I was at luncheon to-day."

It flashed upon him for an instant that the reality was disappointing, that this was not all as he had dreamed it would be, but pride bade him conceal his disappointment as best he could.

"You were hurt," he said, tenderly. "I'm so sorry."

"Yes. I was hurt quite a good deal."

"But you're all right now, and I'm so glad!"

"Thank you," she answered, listlessly.

Her eyes roved about the room, observing every detail of furniture and ornament. It was old-fashioned, and in a way queer, she thought. She was glad that she would never have to live there.

Allison watched her eagerly. Like a wayfarer in the desert thirsting for water, he longed for her tenderness; for one unsought kiss, even in farewell. His pride sustained him no longer. "Dear," he pleaded, like the veriest beggar; "won't you kiss me just once?"

Isabel hesitated. "It isn't proper," she murmured, "now that we are no longer engaged. I'm sorry you got hurt," she added, as an afterthought.

Allison's face paled suddenly. So, she accepted her release! Then eager justification of her made him wonder if by any chance she could have misunderstood.

"Dearest," he said, with cold lips, "did you think for a single instant that I wanted to release you? I did it because it was the only thing an honourable man could do and I wouldn't let pity for me hold you to a promise made in love. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I've wanted you every day and every hour. Only God knows how I've wanted you and shall want you all the rest of my life, unless—"

He paused, hoping, for the space of a heartbeat, that the dream might come true.

But Isabel did not move from her chair. She surveyed the opposite wall for a few moments before she spoke. "It was honourable," she said, in a more friendly tone. "Of course it was the only thing you could do."

"Of course," he echoed, bitterly.

Isabel rose, went to the foot of the bed, and leaned upon it, facing him. "I'm afraid I've stayed too long," she said. "I think I'd better go. I can wait downstairs for the carriage."

Allison did not answer. His eyes burned strangely in his white face, making her vaguely uncomfortable and afraid. She turned the diamond ring upon her finger and slowly slipped it off.

"I suppose I must give this back," she said, reluctantly. "I mustn't wear it now."

"Why not?" he asked huskily.

"Because it doesn't mean anything—now."

"It never did. Keep it, Isabel."

"Thank you," she said, calmly, putting it back, but on the middle finger. "I must go now. I hope you'll get along all right."

"Wait just a minute, please." He rang a bell that was on a table within his reach, and the nurse came in. "Please bring me my violin."

Isabel turned to the door but was held back by a peremptory command. "Wait!"

"Here," he cried shrilly, offering Isabel the violin. "Take this, too!"

"What for?" she asked, curiously. "I can't play."

"Nevertheless, it belongs to you. Keep it, as a souvenir!"

Holding the violin awkwardly, Isabel backed out of the room, the nurse following her and closing the door. The nurse was a young woman who had not sacrificed her normal human sympathy to her chosen work, but had managed, happily, to combine the two. She watched Isabel disdainfully as she went down-stairs, very briskly for one with a sprained ankle.

"God!" said Allison, aloud. "Oh, God in Heaven!"

Then the nurse turned away in pity, for behind the closed door she heard a grown man sobbing like a hurt child.



XVII

PENANCE

The Crosby twins had gone home very quietly, after doing all they could to help Colonel Kent and Madame Bernard. "The Yellow Peril" chugged along at the lowest speed with all its gaudy banners torn down. Neither spoke until they passed the spot where the red touring car lay on its side in the ditch, and four or five dogs, still hungry and hopeful, wrangled over a few bare bones.

Juliet was sniffing audibly, and, as soon as she saw the wreck, burst into tears. "Oh, Romie," she sobbed, "if he's dead, we've killed him!"

Romeo swallowed a lump in his throat, winked hard, and roughly advised Juliet to "shut up."

When the machine was safely in the barn, and all the scattered dogs collected and imprisoned, Romeo came in, ready to talk it over. "We've got to do something," he said, "but I don't know what it is."

"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet with a fresh burst of tears, "do you think they'll hang us? We're murderers!"

Romeo considered for a moment before he answered. "We aren't murderers, because we didn't go to do it. They won't hang us—but they ought to," he added, remorsefully.

"What can we do?" mourned Juliet. "Oh, what can we do?"

"Well, we can pay all the bills for one thing—that's a good start. To- morrow, I'll see about getting that car out of the ditch and taking care of it."

"Somebody may steal it," she suggested.

"Not if we guard it. One or both of us ought to sit by it until we can get it into the barn."

Juliet wiped her eyes. "That's right. We'll guard it all night to-night and while we're guarding it, we'll talk it all over and decide what to do."

The dinner of unwholesome delicacies which they had planned as the last feature of the day's celebration was hesitatingly renounced. "We don't deserve to have anything at all to eat," said Juliet. "What is it that they feed prisoners on?"

"Bread and water—black bread?"

"Where could we get black bread?"

"I don't know. I never saw any."

After discussing a penitential menu for some time, they finally decided to live upon mush and milk for the present, and, if Allison should die, forever. "We can warm it in the winter," said Romeo, "and it won't be so bad."

When their frugal repast was finished, they instinctively changed their festal garments for the sober attire of every day. Romeo brought in two lanterns and Juliet pasted red tissue paper around them, so that they might serve as warning signals of the wreck. At sunset, they set forth, each with a blanket and a lantern to do sentry duty by the capsized car.

"Oughtn't we to have a dog or two?" queried Romeo, as they trudged down the road. "Watchmen always have dogs."

"We oughtn't to have anything that would make it any easier for us to watch, and besides, the dogs weren't to blame. They don't need to sit up with us—let 'em have their sleep."

"All right," Romeo grunted. "Shall we divide the night into watches and one of us sit on the car while the other walks?"