Ainslee's, Vol. 15, No. 5, June 1905. Various

than love that gave the fierceness to her mood. It was the frenzy of a tender-hearted woman at hearing of an act of cruelty rather than the agony of one who suffers a personal bereavement.

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

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

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

      “Hush,” he said, “you have said enough – I will go.”

      Having gained her point, she burst into tears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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