ed, too; _she_ had longed for _his_ help and
sympathy. No, she would not think of that; she would not. When two are
separated, one must love enough to bridge the gulf--what matter which
one? It seemed now as if there were so much that she might have given,
if all this torrent of love that nearly broke her heart might have been
poured out and poured out at his feet--lavished on him, without regard
to need or fitness or expense, as Mary lavished her precious box of
spikenard on One she loved. Now that he was gone, there could be nothing
too hard to have done for him, no words too sweet for her to have said
to him.

Redge woke up and cried for her, and she told him hoarsely to be still;
and then, suddenly conscience-stricken and fearful at the slighting of
this other demand of love,--what awful reprisal might it not exact from
her?--she went to kiss the child, to infold him in her arms, the boy
that Justin loved, before she bade him go to sleep, for mother would
stay by her darling. And, left to herself again, the grinding and
destroying wheel of thought had her bound to it once more.

He could not have left her of his own will! If he did not come, it would
be because he was dead--and then he could never know, never, never know.
There would be nothing left to her but the place where he had been. She
looked at the walls and the homely furnishings as one seeing them for
the first time bare forever of the beloved presence, and fell on her
knees, and went on them around the room, dragging herself from chair to
sofa, from sofa to bed,--these were the Stations of the Cross that she
was making,--with sobs and cries, low and inarticulate, yet carrying
with them the awful anguish of a heart laid bare before the Almighty.
Here his dear hand had rested, while he thought of her; on this
table--here--and here; and here his head had lain. Her tears ceased; she
buried her face in the pillow. She must go after him, wherever he was,
in this world or another. For he was her husband. Where he was she must
be, either in body or in spirit.

The telephone-bell rang, and Dosia answered it, the voice at the other
end inquiring for Mr. Girard, cautiously, it seemed, withholding
information from any other. The doctor rang up, in response to an
earlier call, with directions for Redge. Hardly had the receiver been
laid down when the door-bell clanged. This was to be a night of the
ringing of bells!

XXII

This time, of course, the visitor was